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, and stared down. Her left hand curled around the katana’s scabbard, the metal inside quiescent. Her right hand had knotted into a fist, bitten fingernails driving into her palm. The ring, three braided loops of silvery metal, its clawed setting grasping a dead-dark gem, glinted in the light from the overhead fixture. A single pinprick of green struggled up from the depths of the stone, winked out as she breathed in, slowly, blowing out tension the way Danny had taught her. That’s your best friend right there, her foster-mother had said in her melodious, queerly husky voice. Use your breath: it’s completely under your control. Not like other things.

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 . . .”

“Even sparring? You’d do that just to keep me in the room a little bit longer, wouldn’t you?” Listen to me whine. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. “I’m a lot better than I used to be.”

“So I’ve heard.” Dante’s shoulders relaxed. “What are you really here for, Lia?”

I wish I knew. “Just wanted to say hello, Mother.” Deliberate emphasis on the word, watching as Dante turned into a statue carved of fluid golden stone, every inch of her braced and ready, giving nothing away. Except her eyes. The pain there was half balm, half poison. “I’ll be on my way. Give my regards to Jaf.”

“Come back soon,” Dante whispered. Her aura, full of the trademark glittering sparkles of a mecromance, embedded in black-diamond demon fire, turned dark and soft with hurt. “Please. Lia –”

“Maybe, Hold your breath.” And Liana stalked away. There. Mission accomplished. Now I can go.

As usual, though, Dante got the last word. “I love you.” The words were soft, scarred with deadly anger, and so husky they almost refused to stir the air. “I always will.”

Liana made it down the hall and into the lift before she started digging in her pockets with her free hand. Well, that went well. I saw her. Now I can go away again. I can catch a transport in an hour and be back in Angeles Tijuan by nightfall.

But the tears, sliding hot and thick down her cheeks, said otherwise.

Taking a cheap hotel room on the fringes of the Tank was merely a gesture. She wasn’t even really surprised when she exited the shower, dripping, every hint of grime washed away and her scalp thankfully not itching, and found him sitting on the bed, hands loose on his knees. Darkness had fallen, pressing against the curtain-shrouded window with the pock-pock of projectile fire and a scream down on the corner. They might have found a cure for the worst drug of the century, but people still got addicted to Clormen-13 and shot each other, or innocent bystanders. The blight of inner-city rot fuelled by addiction still crept outwards, though not as quickly as twenty years ago.

Tiens’ eyes glowed in the dim yellow light from the bedside lamp. “Charming.”

Fuck you. Liana dropped the towel on her pile of dirty clothes, picked up her clean shirt and shrugged into it. Her skin tingled with chill, the room was barely heated. The long thin scars on her buttocks and side twitched; Tiens drew in a sharp breath. Goody for me. I’ve surprised him.

“What is that?”

Liana sighed, buttoned up her shirt, pulled on her panties and stepped into her jeans. The leather patches were dark from chem-washing. She dropped into a rickety chair and pulled her socks on, laced up her boots and double-knotted them. “Just a demon.” And a very, very close call. Closer than you would ever believe.

The walls between Hell and the world were so thin now, and it took so little for a demon-trained magus to break them. The only trouble was, she had little control over what came through – and the name she used to make the walls thin down to transparency was the name of a demon the new Prince of Hell wither feared . . . or wanted to punish.

“M’sieu –” Tiens began.

“Don’t you dare tell Jaf. If I’m going to be helping you, you don’t get to go carrying tales to him. He’s got enough to worry about and it’s not his fucking business anyway. Clear?”

“I cannot –” His throat moved as he swallowed, and a nasty gleam of satisfaction lit in Liana’s chest.

“If you can keep what almost happened between us a secret, you can also keep a little bit of lost skin to yourself.” She finger-combed her dark hair, then began braiding it back with quick motions. “Now, if we can get down to business. What does this Nichtvren look like? I don’t want to kill the wrong one.”

“Female. Dark. Very young.” He made a restless movement as she tied off her braid. “I will be there to meet her, and her thralls –”

“How many?” You didn’t say anything about thralls before, dammit.

“I do not know. All I know is that she will arrive, and God help me afterwards.”

This just keeps getting better. “Anything else you want to tell me, Tiens?” If I was my mother right now I’d be kicking your ass. But, I’m just me, and I don’t even know why I’m doing this.

Her heart turned into a heated bubble inside her chest. I’m lying. I know why. Because once I do this, we’re even and I can leave again.

He rose slowly, and Liana dropped her eyes. Her left hand shot out and closed around her katana, which was leaning against a spindle-legged table that passed for furniture only in the most charitable of senses. She dragged it closer to her like a lifeline.

The air turned hard, tensing, and Tiens halted a bare two feet from her.

This is your honour, Lia. It must never touch the ground. Dante’s voice, from the very first time a ten-year-old Liana had touched a sword.

The first time she had known what made her different, and only human.

“I could say I am sorry, and that I wish I had chosen otherwise. But you would not believe me, since I need your help.” A slight sound of moving fabric, and he leaned down, his warmth – he must have fed, blood or sex providing the metabolic kick to fuel his preternatural muscles – brushing her cheek. “And have committed the sin of asking for it, as well. Tell me, if I asked for that offer again, if I begged and said you were right, would you bare your throat to me?”

His lips almost touched her cheek, his breath a warm dampness, flavoured with night and oddly enough, a little bit of mint. He must have brushed his fangs. She pushed down hysterical laughter at the thought, her body stiffening, remembering soft kisses and murmurs, the feel of his fingers over her damp, young, mortal flesh. Air caught in her throat, let out in a sipping gasp, and her right hand twitched towards the katana hilt.

Tiens retreated, blinking out of existence and reappearing across the room. Two inches of steel gleamed, glowing blue with spidery runes, the dappled reflection against cheap wallpaper giving the entire room an aqueous cast.

“And she reaches for a knife, to make her lover disappear.” Tiens let out a sound that might have been a laugh. The walls groaned sharply under the lash of his voice, a sound she remembered from childhood, the physical world responding to a more-than-human creature’s temper.

“You aren’t my lover, Tiens. You made that very clear –” the sword slid back home with a click and an effort that left her sweating “– five years ago.” Five years, two months, fourteen days. Should I count up the hours too? But I’ve changed. Living down south where life is cheaper than a bottle of soymalt-40 will do that to you.

“Does this mean you will not aid me against my enemy?” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, for all the world like a juvenile delinquent on a holovid show.

Isis, save me. Liana shrugged. “I’m here and I already bought more ammo. It would be a shame not to use it.”

Private transport docks radiated out from the main transport well servicing the west half of Saint City, and this one was a long, sleek, black metal tongue extending out into infinity. Liana hugged the shadows at the end of the bay, wishing she could use a plasgun. If she could outrun the blast when a plasfield interacted with reactive paint on the underside of a hover, she could just blow this Amelie bitch up and not stop running until Saint City was a smudge on the horizon behind her.

And if wishes were noodles, nobody would starve.

Tiens stood at the end of the dock, the orange glow of city light and freeplas tinting his pale hair and now-wrinkled suit. Liana’s left hand hovered, touched the butt of her plasgun, then returned to the 9 mm Smithwesson projectile gun. Hollowpoint armour-piercing ammo; hopefully she could bleed the Nichtvren out in short order – if she could hit her, that is. She wasn’t a preternatural crack shot like Dante, didn’t have Dante’s grace or unthinking berserker speed. Seeing her foster-mother fight was like seeing fire eat petroleum fumes. Human reflexes could only do so much, and Nichtvren were dangerous.

How many thralls is she going to have? Miserable acid boiled in Liana’s stomach. I have a really bad feeling about this.

So why am I doing it? Because I have to (the oldest reason in the world). What am I trying to prove? Only that I can.

A sleek, silver hover detatched itself from the traffic-holding pattern overhead and dived gracefully, gyros making a faint whining as its underside swelled with frictionless reactive paint. The whine of antigrav rattled Liana’s back teeth, crawled inside her skull and stayed there. I wonder if he got my message. I wonder if he’s even in town. I wonder if he’ll show up. He could always find me, he said. Her heart decided to complete the fun and games by hammering up into her throat, bringing the taste of sour copper with it. I wonder if now’s the time we’re going to test that statement.

The hover was combat – and mag – shielded. It nosed up to the dock as Tiens stepped back a single pace, his shoulders slumping. Liana didn’t scan it – whoever was in there would be able to feel her attention, and that would go badly all the way around.

The hover’s main passenger hatch dilated, antigrav reaching a whining peak and receding as systems shut down. Liana’s fingers touched the plasgun’s hilt again. If she squeezed off a shot . . . but Tiens was right there, too.

Do I care?

She drew the projectile gun, smoothly, slowly. There would be no glint off the barrel, this catwalk was too deep in industrial gloom. Four escape routes, one of them straight down and onto another slim grating hanging out over space.

This isn’t good. She watched Tiens, his shoulders bowing under an invisible force, as two small lights gleamed, down low, in the shadowed hatch. What the hell?

It couldn’t be a Nichtvren. If it was, it was a joke and not a good one. It was the kind of joke immortal beings play on humans without thinking of horrific consequences just because they can.

The little girl wore a blue gingham frock and shiny red patent-leather shoes. Her hair hung in carefully coiffed ringlets and her feral little face caught a random reflection of light, filling with the stray gleam like a dish with milk. She had a sharp little nose, plump cheeks, dark eyes like coals with the dust of centuries over them. Her aura swirled once, counter-clockwise, and ate the deep bruising that was Tiens on the landscape of power whole, enfolding him.

You didn’t tell me she was a goddam nine-year-old, Tiens. Her mouth was dry and as slick as glass. Liana sighted as the blond Nichtvren went to his knees. There was no way even such a creature as old and powerful as him could fight whatever was in that little-girl body. Isis save me. She’s got to be ancient. At least a Master, maybe as strong as the Prime – though I just saw the Prime that once. Scary fucker he was, too.

Her hand tightened, the hammer clicking up as the trigger eased down. Their voices drifted up to her, some archaic language – maybe Old Franje, mellifluous and accented. Tiens, with a ragged, breathless edge to these words Liana had never heard before; the other Nichtvren in a sweet bell-like tone over a sucking whirlpool of something candy-sweet and rotten.

The little girl stepped forwards, her shoes glittering like polished rubies in the backwash of landing lights. Tiens crumpled and a low sound of agony scarred the night. He sounded like something red-hot had just been rammed into his belly, his body curving over to protect violated flesh.

Let him suffer. God knows I suffered enough.

And yet, she’d taken the job. This is your honour, Lia. It must never touch the ground.

The thing was, the ground kept moving. Liana squeezed the trigger.

The bullet flew true, and half of the little girl’s head evaporated. She toppled backwards, and Liana was already moving, her hand slapping the guard rail as she vaulted, a moment of weightlessness before her boots thudded onto the catwalk below. Move, move, move!

The world exploded turning over, metal screeching as it tore under a lash of razor-toothed Power. She fell, cart-wheeling through space, the catwalk peeled back like so much spun sugar, and she landed hard, the gun skittered from her grasp as something snapped like greenwood and a wave of sick agony spilled down her left ribs.

A molasses-slow eternity of rolling to bleed momentum left Liana, hyperventilating, on the cold metal of the dock, her arms and legs twisted oddly and something wet and sticky dripping in her eyes. Firefly points of light streamed through the dark sky, the traffic patterns of both the freight and passenger hovers trembling on the edge of coherence for a moment before darkening as something bent over her. Left arm useless, a bar of lead, right arm still working, fingers against a leather-wrapped hilt and the sword rising as every muscle in Liana’s body screamed. It was an arc of silver, a solid sweep of metal, and it sank into the side of the little-girl Nichtvren’s scrawny neck with a sound like an axe hitting hardwood.

Isis save me, this is going to hurt in a moment. The pain turned red and rolled over her as blood sprayed, impossibly red, a tide of stinking copper death.

And the little-girl Nichtvren screamed something no doubt filthy in her mother tongue, claws springing free of her delicate childish fingers, half her dress soaked with bright claret from the swiftly rebuilding ruin of her skull. Other noises intruded under her screeching – a tide of roars and screams, the sound of a projectile rifle stuttering on automatic, howls of pain and at least one spiralling death scream.

Then it happened, the way it always did.

Time stopped.

Liana’s bloody hand gleamed, slick and wet, the ring’s shine lost under liquid. A pinprick of green flared in the gem’s depths, opened like a hover’s fisheye hatch, spat a single spark that turned black as it imploded. Emerald light crawled through the widening aperture, sending vein-like traceries through the coating of blood, and flared to cover Liana’s right hand in a supple, metallic glove of green light.

Strength like wine jolted up her arm, spilled down into her chest, burned fiercely in her broken left humerus, pulled Liana to her feet as if she were a puppet, the strings tied to flexible fingers that bent in ways no human’s should. Green flame crawled like liquid oil down her fingers, mixing uneasily with the blue glow of runes in the depths of blessed steel, and threaded through the small female body that was even now screeching, thrashing with flesh and Power both, metal crumpled and thin trickles of hot blood tracing down from Liana’s ears.

I knew this was going to happen, she thought, and felt only a drowsy sense of panic.

The repeating projectile rifle spoke again. The rest of the little-girl Nichtvren’s head exploded, gobbets of steaming preternatural flesh smoking and splatting against shredded metal and cracked concrete. The rifle went back to speaking in stutters. Liana tore her sword free and raised her head as the body thumped to the ground, runnels of self-cannibilizing tissue fuelled by an extra-human metabolism turning into rot.

Damn they go quickly.

Her legs folded again as the green light spilled away, back into the depths of the ring. A low, keening hum drilled through her head and receded; Liana found herself sprawled on the dock as the noise drained down through whimpers and yelps into silence. There was one last spatter of projectile fire, then the whine of antigrav that might as well be silence swept over the dock.

Liana decided to stay right where she was. She blinked, and another shadow fell over her.

“Cherie?” Tiens, his angelic face twisted with worry, came into view. His hair was full of blood, and it striped and spattered his shredded suit. He looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a vegaprocessor. “Liana?”

Go away. Her mouth wouldn’t work to frame the words.

Then, wonder of wonders, the best thing in the world happened. Another shadow mated with Tiens’ over her and a pair of yellow eyes under strings of lank dark hair met hers.

“You look like shit, chica,” Lucas Villalobos said hoarsely, in his throat-cut voice.

But Liana had already passed out.

Lucas set the bonescrubber, his fingers deft and as painless as possible. A sharp jab of heat, the numbing of analgesic, and the silvery cuff around her left upper arm began to fill with red light. When it faded to green the break would be mostly healed and she would just have to be careful for a few days while the fresh tissue settled. Two hot tears trickled down Liana’s cheek and she couldn’t wipe them away because her right hand was locked around the scabbard.

Tiens stood, his hands in his pockets and his head down. “I did not know,” he repeated, and Liana felt only weary amazement that he would repeat the obvious.

“Of course you didn’t know.” The analgesic made her tongue feel too thick for the words. “Isis save me, Tiens, you think I’d come back here for you? You tore my heart out, threw it on the floor and stamped on it a few times.”

“Why didn’t you use the rifle?” Villalobos said for the third time – a sure sign of his irritation. The thick-ridged scar running down the side of his face twitched, its seams and puckers moving independently to his mood. They called him the Deathless, and even Jaf respected his ability.

Of course, any demon might be wary of an assassin who couldn’t die.

“Decapitation’s surest.” Liana squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could rest. And I had to prove I could do it. “I presume the money’s safe?”

“You bet.” Lucas shrugged, then peeled the latex gloves off with small snapping sounds.

“Money?” Tiens sagged even further.

“You weren’t the only one wanting the bitch dead.” Liana let out a small, painful hitching laugh. “Come off it, Tiens. A Master of that calibre wouldn’t be coming back just for you. She’d made a lot of enemies with the games she liked to play; you were just an afterthought. Our client paid double for her to be killed in transit to Bangkok. Just be glad I’m not charging you for the dust-up too.”

“For money?” Tiens was having a hard time with this. “You were raised better, petite.”

This is your honour. It stung just for a moment through the painkillers. Liana opened her eyes and stared at him. “You can go away now.” Now that I’ve proved to myself that I can stay away from you. Like mother, like daughter, huh?

“Lia –”

“I’d take that offer if I was you suckhead.” Lucas’ whisper was as soft as ever. The shiver that usually traced down Liana’s spine at that tone was muted, but still there through the chemical numbness.

The bonescrubber cuff clicked and hummed to itself. A sharp twinge of pain buried itself under the analgesic, shooting through her arm, and Liana sucked in a breath.

“Liana –”

“Get the hell out of here,” she said tonelessly. “Hold your breath until I call.”

It wasn’t as good as it could have been, because he’d be able to hold his breath anyway, at least until he wanted to seduce someone new. But he left, thank the gods, walking heavily one step at a time like a mortal human to the door of the room Lucas had rented deep in the Tank’s seething mess of crowded tenements. The hinges squeaked, the door opened and closed, and Liana waited until the disturbance of his aura vanished into the psychic noise of so many poor people crowded all together.

“You OK?” Did Lucas actually sound, of all things, tentative? Wonders never cease. “Just fine,” Liana murmured. She glanced down at her right hand. The gem was dead-dark and quiescent, and she suppressed a shiver at what she might have to do on the next job. “Where are we headed next?”

“Fuck, girl, don’t you want to take a rest?” But there was no heat to it. He, of all people, understood how she felt about this city, this place, the obligations and duties lying just under the streets to trip her up, rising like invisible wires. A net that would catch her if she stayed here much longer.

“Goddammit, Lucas,” she said wearily, “just tell me what the next job is. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“What about . . .” The question failed on his lips, and Liana looked up at him. The Deathless looked tired, grey riding under the sallow of his skin.

“Tiens and I were over a long time ago, Lucas. I told you, I’m with you now. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

He nodded, but he didn’t look relieved. “Did you see your madre?”

She almost shrugged before she remembered the bonescrubber, forced herself to hold still. “I got that out of the way. She won’t expect me for another couple of years now. Wish I’d gotten to see Jaf though.”

“I dunno.” Lucas settled on the bed. “Thought you were a goner, chica. You got some balls.”

And a broken heart. And a serious need to get out of this town before it eats me alive. “That’s one way of putting it,” she agreed, and dropped her gaze to the bonescrubber sleeve, waiting for it to turn green so she could peel it off.

And get the hell out of Saint City.

On to the next job.