Selene, Page 2

  Except us, the kids who grew up in the craters. We can’t stop thinking about it. The handle was plain dark wood, the blade eight inches long and razor-sharp in its sheath.

  And it held the remains of the wards from her brother’s apartment, careful delicate work she’d pulled away and stored in the physical fabric of the knife so she could look at them later.

  It’s later now.

  Danny had been dead for less than twelve hours now. The trail was only going to get colder, and this was the only clue she had.

  Selene turned her athame over and over in her hands, and closed her eyes.

  Tears rose behind her eyelids, filled her throat. She’d always been good at promising herself “breakdowns later, work now”.

  Just get this done and you can cry. You can’t cry now, it will ruin your concentration.

  She swallowed against the lump in her throat. Then she lifted her head and spoke the Word that made the circle come to life.

  The chalk lines shifted on the floor and began to writhe prettily. I am a true artist. Selene felt the ghost of a smile touch her lips. Not bad for learning most of my magick from books and in trade. Then she lifted the sheathed knife from her lap.

  She clasped it in her left hand while she began to speak the language of her magick, the spell falling from her lips in a stream of syllables that was never the same twice. Her right hand passed over a section of the floor in front of her, and the hardwood rippled just a little, like heat haze on pavement. Then she lay the knife down and spread both her hands over it, took a deep breath in, and felt the first few glimmers of feeling down low in her belly. The Power started to drain from her, taking shape in the spell. Like Nikolai’s hand between her legs, careful and just a little rough, touching her in exactly the right way.

  Selene’s head tipped back, and she gasped. She liked her privacy while she Worked, because it was so close to sex even she couldn’t tell the two apart. The sensations blurred, and her hands, held over the knife with her fingers spread, began to shake.

  Show me, she whispered, she cajoled, she seduced. Show me. Show me.

  The wards rose, shimmering, little sparkles of crimson energy. It was her work, with the blurring of Danny’s personality lying over it. It unfolded in a complex matrix, dimensions spreading up and out, threads of Power unweaving here and there once the wards weren’t anchored in a physical object.

  Selene struck, plunging through the matrix of energy, the pattern taking its place in her mind.

  Danny’s apartment. Knock on the door—he doesn’t answer, shaking, he’s shaking, flood of chemical fear, salt against her tongue, he’s cold. Selene—he has to warn Selene. “Cold…Lena, don’t…don’t…Danger…” He says it into the phone. His fingers are numb. He’s been out a-journeying, traveling on the astral, and yanked back into his body, that’s why he’s so cold. Panic threading through his bones, spilling through his veins, loose cool terror. He has miscalculated.

  Darkness, spilling into the apartment, filling the hall, the door burst off its hinges. It roared in the hall, and Danny looked into the laughing face of evil before it was on him.

  “Give my regards to Nikolai,” a soft, deadly voice purred.

  Beads clacking against shoulders, a hook nose, clamping of razor-sharp fingers in his throat. Screaming, muffled and choked.

  “The book—” he tried to scream, a wet garbled sound. “Selene—the book, the book—”

  It threw her back. Blood flew. She made a muffled choked sound too, and her curse blazed into life, slamming into her nervous system like a freight train. She hit the bottom of her sturdy, scuffed leather couch and slid down to lay on the floor, her cheek against the floor, the robe falling open. The medallion lay against her chest, scorching hot, and it stayed hot while Selene grayed out for a little while, losing consciousness, drifting back and forth.

  When she finally came back into herself, she blinked something warm and wet out of her eyes. Selene levered herself up, feeling the dull ache pound between her legs and—thankfully—subside when she pushed it down.

  The curse was well fed, and it would obey her. For now.

  Blood. Blood dripped into her eyes and trickled out of her nose. She’d bitten her lip too, blood smearing on the floor and her hand as she wiped blindly at her face. There was a thick smell in the air, and she sniffed deeply, filling her nose with the stench.

  It was a distinctive scent. Now she had her quarry.

  Never mind that it was probably a quarry who would kill her too, if she managed to track it. That was the least of her problems right now.

  The thing that had killed her brother smelled like death and pain and blood, something male, ancient—and hungry. Wet ratfur and a kind of musk. Selene made it up to a sitting position, her knees drawn up, and rested her fevered forehead on her knees, blood soaking into the loose silk of her robe. Whatever it was, it was hungry. She shivered, her teeth chattering, even though she was sweating freely again.

  Give my regards to Nikolai.

  She waited until the shivers eased, and used the couch to pull herself up. She sat primly on the old leather, her fingers interlaced in her lap like a schoolgirl. Thank God she was fully recharged, or that might have drained her to the point of madness.

  The medallion cooled, pulsing between her breasts. Nikolai might be able to tell that she’d worked magick, but he wouldn’t be able to tell what she’d done.

  I hope he won’t. The book. What was Danny talking about, the book? So Nikolai’s mixed up in this?

  There was a book—Danny’s little black notebook, the one that held his secrets. Since Danny was a Journeyman, he was an information broker for certain parts of the city, certain clients who needed particular talents. Selene had turned a blind eye to it, mostly because they both needed the money Danny brought in from selling what he knew.

  It was the only book Selene could think of that might explain what had happened. If Danny had come across the wrong piece of information—or sold to the wrong people—it could have been very dangerous. And Nikolai was mixed up in it somehow.

  No wonder he hadn’t wanted a report filed, and hadn’t wanted Selene near the body. How deeply was he involved in this?

  Oh, Danny. Her eyes brimmed with wetness. Tears slid down her cheeks, mixing with the blood. I’m so sorry. If we hadn’t… if I hadn’t… oh, Danny.

  She cried for a good half-hour, while the apartment building woke up around her. Smells of coffee brewing, sound of footsteps, water beginning to run through pipes, Pippa Shelton next door turning her hip-hop radio up. All of them going on about their normal lives. Selene was the only Talent in the building—and if they knew, they would probably kick her out. Oh, they would find something else to pin it on—a discrepancy in the rental agreement, something in the lease—but she would be out on the street again and maybe lose her job again if they found out. It was illegal, of course, under the terms of the new Parapsychic Act, to deny someone lodging or employment because they had Talent…but nobody cared about that. It was like being accused of being a Gilead sympathizer—nobody gave a damn if it was true or not. They just reflexively cut you loose.

  And now that Danny was dead, she had nobody else in the entire world to depend on. Nobody who wouldn’t exact a price for anything she asked of them. Nobody who would take care of her, nobody she could relax with.

  When she finished crying, she just sat there for a few minutes, struggling to breathe. If she didn’t stop soon she would need Nikolai again. Either him or someone else, the curse didn’t care. Fear and pain changed directly into desire, and that fed her power—but the desire itself had to be fed, too.

  I wish I’d killed myself when I had the chance. Before I knew what this would do to me. Before I became a fucking whore.

  When she finally had herself under some kind of control, she got up, wiped up the blood on the floor with a handful of her robe. She picked up her athame again, stepping carefully over the chalk marks. They were still and faded now, and wo
uld need recharging. She’d expended more Power than she’d thought. She rolled the carpet back over the marks, put her athame away, and moved the coffee table back. Then she hobbled slowly into the bathroom. She needed another shower, and she had to get dressed.

  Her face was a mess of tears and half-coated with blood from a shallow slice along her hairline. The snapping backlash of Power had been flung at her, needle-sharp and deadly. She was lucky it had missed her eyes. Her nose was still trickling blood, and her lip would probably swell. She looked worked-over, to be sure. Maybe she would have a black eye.

  That will be great, a shiner to add to the fun. The silver medallion was warm against her skin. It glittered once, angrily, and she touched it with a bloody finger.

  The lion’s head etched into the front of the silver disc shifted slightly. Selene frowned and touched it again. The warmth coming from it intensified, and a sudden rush of sensation crawled down Selene’s skin. Power. Stored in the medallion? Maybe.

  She clutched at her bathroom counter, looked up into the mirror. The medallion glinted, subsided as she took a deep breath. She was wet between her legs, slick and swollen.

  She took a deep breath, forcing it down. Making the curse obey her.

  The curse retreated. She stared at the silver disc and wondered again exactly what it was.

  Get going. Jorge will be here soon. And if he sees you in this state, he’ll report it to Nikolai. You don’t want that.

  Give my regards to Nikolai. The soft voice was etched in her memory, tied to the sick twisting smell of whatever had killed Danny. Long hair, beads clacking. Selene shook the memory away.

  Now she had a lead, it was time to work it.

  For the second time that morning she stepped into the shower. She twisted the single knob over to ’hot’ and yanked it outwards. The water gurgled and sprayed into life, stinging needles of cold water hitting her shrinking flesh. It warmed up quickly, became scalding-hot, and she stood under the painful spray and kept crying.

  She was dressed by the time a courteous knock sounded at her door. A charcoal wool skirt hemmed just below the knee, black heels, black nylons, a crisp white dress shirt and a charcoal wool blazer. It screamed ’professional,’ even though she’d bought the suit at a thrift store. Prices were finally going down all over as the infrastructure recovered from the Republic’s slash-and-burn, and the black market was withering to drugs and illegal weapons. A few years ago it had been impossible to even find bread or butter without knowing someone. And clothes? Forget it.

  She opened the door to find Jorge Czestowitz looming in the hall outside.

  He wore, as usual, a dark-gray Jarmani suit and a tasteful wine-red tie. He was built like a football player, wide shoulders and a bull neck, a bald head that gleamed in the yellow electric light from the hall fixtures, and a diamond earring that winked merrily at her from his left ear. “Hi, Jorge.” She smiled, leaning against the wall. “Come on in. Want some coffee?”

  “Hello, Miss Selene,” he said formally. He was one of Nikolai’s thralls, but Selene liked him anyway. He was quiet, and didn’t try to force her into doing anything. Instead, he asked politely, and Selene usually could see the logic of his requests. “Tea, if you have it. Thank you.”

  “Come in,” she repeated. “You okay?”

  Jorge stepped his Testoni loafers over her threshold and into her apartment. “You’ve been working magick in here.” He sniffed deeply. “And you’ve changed your perfume. You used to wear Chatelier.”

  Knockoff Chatelier, you mean, since I couldn’t afford pre-War perfume if I tried. How very observant of you. “Nikolai said he liked it, so I had to change.” Not to mention I could finally afford something real instead of tramp-juice. Selene shut the door behind him. “And I had Work to do. The world doesn’t stop just because my brother gets m-murdered.” She took a deep breath and flipped both locks, suddenly squeamishly glad for Jorge’s presence. He was big, and a Nichtvren’s thrall; between that and the locks on the door she was as safe as possible.

  “I was told of your loss,” Jorge said quietly, following her into the kitchen. It was another reminder of just how big he was, the way her apartment suddenly seemed too small around her. “I am sorry, Selene.”

  “Me too.” She took her battered green enamel kettle from the stove, filled it with water and set it back, turning the gas on. Flame burst into life. For a moment, just like she did every time, she marveled at heat you could get just by twisting a dial, instead of scrounging for waste wood. “The worst part of it is the cops probably won’t touch it. Nikolai’s pulled a few strings and Jack’s declared it a Paranormal Case. And Nikolai won’t lift a finger.”

  “How do you know?” Jorge asked curiously, getting the chipped and scarred metal canister of teabags down. He didn’t look at her legs or her breasts, which Selene was grateful for. Jorge treated her like a person instead of a cut of meat; that was rare and precious indeed.

  “Because I won’t ‘cooperate’ with his game plan, whatever it is.” She set a coffee cup down on the counter. “Make yourself at home, Jorge. I want to go put my hair up.”

  “You look beautiful.” Jorge said it quietly, as a compliment instead of a come-on. “Selene, your brother was under Nikolai’s protection too. The Master has to answer this killing, or it will be seen as weakness. He won’t let it go.”

  I know Nikolai wouldn’t be interested unless it affects him somehow. “Great.” Selene’s mouth twisted. “So he’ll go out for revenge, but not until he uses this to get any leverage he can on me. How utterly typical. How did you get involved with such a bastard, Jorge?” She leaned against the kitchen counter, combing her fingers back through her wet hair and gritting her teeth as she found tangles. “I mean, you seem like a decent fellow.”

  Jorge looked down at the Formica counter. “Nikolai took me from my native land after he saved my life. I asked to go with him. He is an honorable man.”

  “I’m not sure the term ‘man’ applies,” Selene said darkly. The kettle began to make its usual pre-boil sounds. “I’m going to go put my hair up, Jorge.”

  “Thank you, Miss Selene.” As usual, he said her name almost stiffly, as if it was a foreign title. He had a thick, round face and heavy black eyebrows over hazel eyes, wide lips, and a nose that had been broken one or two times. “Nikolai wouldn’t like it if you were hurt. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I know why you’re here,” Selene said over her shoulder as she headed across the living room toward her bedroom. You’re here to make sure I behave like a good little slave and don’t get any ideas about investigating on my own. Pearly rainy-day light came in through her windows, the shades open wide. She didn’t get much light since her windows only looked out onto an alley. “I’m not mad at you, Jorge. I’m mad at Nikolai.”

  “That’s the usual state of affairs.” Jorge muttered, and she pretended she didn’t hear, pacing into her bathroom. Her hair was still damp, and if she had it down today it would cover the shallow slice on her forehead. It would also tangle, and invite people to touch it.

  So she had to put it up.

  The swelling over her eye had gone down. Thank God for little favors. She combed her hair quickly, yanking at the tangled bits. Her lip stung. Then she French-braided the whole mess back, a thick rope reaching almost to her waist. Why am I being nasty to Jorge? It’s not his fault he works for Nikolai. He’s also one of the more decent of his thralls. There was the one that wouldn’t even let me go outside, I could have died of embarrassment over that.

  When she came out, Jorge had a cup of tea in his hands, and was studying one of her cheap metal bookcases—the one with the reference texts. “I’ve never seen your books by day before,” he said, by way of explanation. “You have quite a collection.”

  Selene shrugged. “Goes with the territory. I had to find out what I was, and then I had to research in college. I can’t stand to throw a book away.” Especially since I didn’t see a decent one until I was twelve. Just the
chapsheets at the orphanage. It’s a wonder I’m literate at all.

  He nodded, his bald head gleaming. She looked past him to the window. It was a gray, nasty, drizzly day. She would have to wear a coat.

  Her conscience pricked her. He didn’t deserve the sharp edge of her tongue, he was just as helpless as she was. One of the slaves, just like she was. “I’m sorry, Jorge. I’m not angry at you.”

  “It’s all right. You have a right to be upset.”

  She stopped by the entrance to the kitchen, looking at her black leather purse. It sat obediently on the counter. “I don’t think upset quite covers the way I’m feeling right now. I feel…”

  What exactly do I feel? she thought blankly, staring at her purse. There was a hollow place under her ribs, a whistling emptiness that seemed numb—the way a very cold stream could numb your feet while sharp rocks slashed them to ribbons. I don’t know how I feel. Isn’t that strange.

  “Ah.” Jorge took a sip of tea, stared into the cup. It was probably tact, giving her the only space he could. “Nikolai will answer this, Miss Selene. I know he will.”

  Selene nodded. She didn’t want to fight with Jorge. The simple faith shining in the big man’s eyes was uncomfortable to witness, like watching a kid who still believed in Santa Claus or Kochba bar Gilead. He’ll answer it if it serves a purpose for him to do so. That’s how Nichtvren work. “Not before he gets whatever he can out of me for the service.”

  Jorge shrugged. It was an evocative movement, expressing regret and resignation all at once. “Thank you for the tea.”

  She felt a small smile lift up the corner of her stinging lips. “You’re so polite, Jorge. I suppose I have to go to the police station.”

  “To sign a statement. Nikolai also expressed that you would wish to visit a funeral parlor. To select a suitable container.”

  Selene shivered. The morning’s magick hung in the air, like the smell of spiced rum. And darkness, the lingering reek of the thing that had burst into Danny’s apartment. “An urn, because they incinerate paranormal victims unless the family has a release on file. It’ll have to be a memorial service, if he has a funeral at all. I can’t imagine anyone would attend.” Her voice shook slightly. Listen to me. I sound bitter. Grief twisted inside her, down in the dark place where her curse dwelled. She couldn’t afford it. It would drain her, and raise her to a pitch where she would need someone, anyone.