I am Your child, I whispered.

The god's approval was like sunshine on my back. Then He spoke again, the Word that expressed me in all its complexity, and I had to go back. I was not even allowed fully over the bridge, to touch the god and feel the weight of living taken from me for one glorious moment. Instead, the god closed me away from Death gently, allowing me to see the well of souls, the bridge, the blue crystal walls-and the shape of Death shifting like ink on wet paper as He raised one slim paw- a hand, laden with dark jewels. No, it was a woman's hand, with a wristlet of bright metal that ran with green fire.

Wait. The god of Death had never changed for me; a psychopomp was coded into the deepest levels of a Necromance and didn't change. Ever. No Necromance's psychopomp had ever changed. At a Necromance's Trial, she suffers the initiation of the mystery of Death and the psychopomp appears. Unlike other disciplines, Necromances have to be accredited, have to pass a Trial and face the ultimate abandonment of control in the face of that most final of mysteries, the passage into the clear rational light of What Comes Next.

I could not even ask a question. My god's voice rang in the blue crystal hall as He spoke one more word, this one sadder than the last, so sad I found myself fleeing the terrible burning sorrow, blindly lunging back toward my body and the familiar pain of living.

I surfaced, my forehead against chill, slick porcelain. Japhrimel's hands circled my wrists, he pulled me into the shelter of his arms. I collapsed against him, gratefully. He pressed a kiss onto my forehead. Said nothing.

The shudders eased. Warmth rushed back into my fingers and toes. "Something's wrong," I said into his shoulder. "None of this makes any sense."

"It rarely does in the beginning stages. This game is deeper than I thought."

"Great," I managed. "Why don't I find that at all comforting?"

A low laugh. He kissed my forehead again. "Am I forgiven yet?"

I shrugged, feeling the slippery weight of hair against my shoulders again. Tipped my head back so I could see his expression.

"We've got to work on our communication."

"Is that a yes, or a no?" How could a voice so flat sound so amused? He watched my face as if the Nine Canons were written there, his eyes bright and depthless with their demon glow.

Why does he even ask me that? I'm still here, aren't I? "Forgiven for what? Yes, sure. Now can I get dressed, or did my clothes burn off me?" I tried not to notice the way my heart leapt as his wrist brushed my skin, as he watched me with the intensity he seemed to have only for me.A faint smile touched his lips, and I swallowed dryly. I knew that look. "Your clothes are beyond repair, but I managed to save your sword. And your bag."

I eased away from him. He stroked my shoulders, let me go. "Guns?" I need firepower, the more the better. No time for games, Japh. Though I have to admit it's tempting.

"Of course." He nodded. Thin tall demon, green eyes glowing in the face I knew. I reached up, traced his cheekbone with one fingertip, my black-lacquered nail brushing his skin. Winged eyebrows, a straight mouth, his jaw set but not clenched. "You do not have to protect me," he murmured finally.

I tried to stop myself, but I sighed anyway, rolling my eyes. My hair slid against my shoulders, a caress as gentle as his hands. "It wasn't exactly like I was thinking, Japhrimel. I saw what the reactive paint did to that imp. If anything happened to you I'd. . . ."

"You would what?" If I thought his look was searching before, it was scorching now. I half expected his eyes to turn into industrial lasers.

He had been ash, after Rio. Cinnamon-smelling ash in a funeral urn, left either as a cruel joke or a hint by Lucifer. I had thought him dead, destroyed his urn as a penance; I had faced the idea of a world without him. The empty yawning abyss of that world wasn't anything I even wanted to even think about ever again. "I thought you were dead once. Once was enough. Now can I get dressed? We've got a demon to hunt, and I think I'm beginning to have an idea."

"May all the hosts of Hell protect me from your ideas, hedaira." But he smiled. Not the smile of invitation, but the warm smile I liked almost as much, wry amusement and irony combining.

I levered myself to my feet, glanced down as he rose, his boots scraping against the small white pebbly tiles. "Clothes, Japhrimel.

And get the others together."

"What if I like you better unclothed?" A slight quirk of his eyebrow. I folded my arms over my breasts, hoping I wasn't blushing.

An uncomfortable heat rose in my cheeks. "You can give me my sword, too."

He laughed, dropping his chin in a nod that managed to convey the impression of a respectful bow. I was actually a little disappointed when he took me at my word and went to find me some clothes.

27.

He not only brought me clothes-a new Trade Bargains microfiber shirt and jeans, socks, underwear, and my sword-he also had a new rig for me, supple oiled leather that might have been custom-made. New projectile guns (9 mm; anything less is useless when you're facing a determined foe) and a new plasgun, a reliable SW Remington in the 40-watt range. Some bounty hunters use 60- watt, but the chance of blowing up your own hand if a core overheats is exponentially higher with a 60. Give me a good 40 any day-what you lose in power you more than make up for in reliability.

Along with the guns were a new set of knives, even a thin fine polyphase-aluminaceramic stiletto to slip into my boot. The main- gauches were beautiful blue steel, sharpened to a razor edge and with a strange dappling in the metal. I tested the action of each knife and was impressed despite myself. It was nice that Japhrimel understood good gear. Of course, one couldn't expect any less from the Devil's assassin. The curtains rustled slightly, I glanced nervously at them and shrugged myself into the rig. I wanted to find something to tie my hair back, too.

As soon as I suited up and had a look at my slightly-charred but still-whole messenger bag I started to feel much better. Then Japhrimel flicked his wrist, and Jace's necklace dangled from his hand. "This I saved also. I have repaired some small damage to it, but it seems largely unharmed. It is . . . fine work, really."

I dropped down on the bed, all the strength running out of my legs. "Oh." My voice was a wounded little whisper. I looked up at him. "Japhrimel-"

He carefully bent over, his fingers gentle and delicate, slid his hands under my hair to fix the clasp and settle the necklace in its familiar arc below my collarbones. He even frowned slightly while he did so, a look of utter concentration that sent an oblique pang through me. His hair fell in his eyes, and his expression reminded me of a boy at his first Academy dance, pinning a corsage on his date. "I do not think," he said, his fingers lingering on my cheek, "that I understand you well enough. My apologies."

My heart hurt. It was an actual, physical, piercing pain. "Japh . . . it's okay. Really, it is. I . . . thank you." Thank you. That's the best I can come up with, two silly stupid little words. Goddammit, Danny, why can't you ever say what you mean? I caught his hands, held on as he looked down at me. "I'm sorry I can't be . . . nicer." Nicer? I'm sorry I seem to be utterly incapable of anything but raving bitchiness. You're better than I deserve. I love you.

"You are exactly as you should be, hedaira. I would not change you." He squeezed my hands, gently, and let go, pacing across the room and picking up a familiar slender shape.

"I wouldn't change you either." The words burst out of me, and the moment of silent communication as his eyes met mine was worth anything I owned.

He presented me with my sword as properly as Jado might have, the hilt toward my hand and a slight respectful bow tilting him toward me. I accepted the slender weight and immediately felt like myself again. "It is the strangest thing, but your sword seemed unaffected by the fire."

"Jado gave it to me." Did he give me a blade that can kill a demon? I certainly hope so, I might need one soon. "Japh, the reaction fire. How did you-"

"My kind are creatures of fire," he reminded me. "No flame can hurt me, even a flame humans unlock from atoms. Steel, wood, lead, fire-none of these things will harm me in the slightest." He clasped his hands behind his back.

I wish I'd known. "Fine time to tell me." A sharp guilt I hadn't even been aware of eased. I finally felt like we understood each other. I didn't like fighting him, I wasn't any good at it.

"I have told you I will not bother you with trifles; I considered that a trifle." He paused, thoughtfully. "I thought it would alarm you to speak of it. If it will ease your mind to know such a thing, I will tell you."

If he had jumped up on the dresser and announced his intention to become a half-credit unregistered sexwitch trolling the sinks of Old Delhi, I would have been a little less surprised. "Good enough." I popped my sword free, looked at four inches of bright metal.

Japhrimel was right-the sword was unaffected. I could see no weakening in its blue glow, no unsteadiness that would warn me the steel had become reaction-brittle. I probed delicately at it with a finger of Power, encountered exactly the right amount of resistance.

"I wonder who you really are," I said, not knowing if I was talking to my sword, my Fallen lover, or the demon we were chasing.

Or to myself.

The old Dante would have fought to escape from Japhrimel, would have tried over and over to push him away, would never have forgiven him one omission, one misleading statement. Would never have listened to his explanation, never mind that it was a good one. Dante Valentine, the best friend in the world-as long as you don't betray her. I had cut people completely out of my life for less.

Then again, I had forgiven Jace. Any lie he told me, every omission he made, had eventually not mattered when weighed against his determination to protect me. Or against the debt I owed him for his quiet, stubborn, careful love of a grief-crazed part-demon Necromance-and his love for the damaged, brittle woman I'd been. I had forgiven him, even though I'd sworn I never would.

Was I getting soft? Or just growing up?

And the strangest thing of all: if it hadn't been for Japhrimel, I wouldn't have learned to forgive anyone, least of all myself. A demon, teaching me about forgiveness. How was that for bizarre?

Japhrimel's soft voice interrupted that chain of thought. "I am your Fallen. That is all you need remember. Are you ready?"

"To try and figure out who's been trying to hit me with a hover? More than ready." At least I sounded like myself again, there was no betraying tremble in my voice. All in all, I was dealing with this really well.

Wasn't I?

"Dante. . . ." He let my name hang in the air as if he wanted to say more. I waited, but nothing came. Instead, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes glowing and his hair softly mussed. His coat moved slightly, settling around him, and I saw his face change. Just a little.

"What?" I bounced up off the bed and jammed my sword home. "I'm ready."

He shook his head, then turned to lead me from the room. "Hey," I said. "Thank you. Really. For saving the necklace. And my sword." But most particularly, for saving me.

Did his shoulders stiffen as if I'd hit him? He nodded, his hair moving ink-black above the darkness of his coat, and continued out of the room.

I didn't have time to wonder about that, just followed him.

28.

The suite was on the third floor of a cheap hotel in the middle of the worst sink in New Prague, and that was saying something.

This section of New Prague's Stare Mesto had been the Judic Quarter, back in the mists of pre-Merican history. During the Awakening it was here that the first Skinlin had been trained by Zoharic and Qabalisticon scholars in their words of Power and the secret of making golem'ai. After the Seventy Days War and the absolute genealogical proof of the extinction of the line of David, the backlash of disbelief had risen against the Judics; their prewar alliance with the Evangelicals of Gilead had only sealed their fate.

There were plenty of genetic Judics all over the world, but the culture they had kept alive so successfully foundered under the double shock of the miscarrying of their prophecies and their alliance with the Evangelicals-and, oddly enough, with the Catholica Church. War makes strange bedfellows, but even the most incisive of scholars could not explain why the Judics had allied with both factions of their old enemies. The Gilead records might have offered a clue, but they'd been destroyed in the War. The only theory was that Kochba bar Gilead had been persuasive, and quite a few-psions and humans alike-had believed him to be a messiah, if not the Messiah.

Curiously enough, most Judic psions turned out to be Ceremonials, gifted with using their voices to sing the Nine Canons and alter reality. The only remnant of Judic culture left was the Skinlin's pidgin mishmash of their language used to sonically alter plant DNA with Power wedded to voice. That, and the golem'ai.

If I'd been a little less worried about a demon trying to kill me, I might have gone looking for some historical sites of interest, especially the corner of Hradcany Square where the last of the Judic followers of Gilead-the stubborn band that had shown its hand too soon against Merican StratComm's final wrenching of political power away from Kochba's old guard-had been mown down by laserifle fire. As it was, scholarship would have to take a back seat to figuring out who the hell was trying to kill me now.

On the bright side, I could always come back.

If I survived.

It was obviously night, since the Nichtvren leaned against the wall by the door, his arms folded. He wore the same dusty black sweater and workman's pants, but a new, shiny pair of boots. "There she is." He sounded lazily amused, the catshine of a night- hunting predator folding over his eyes. "You look better now, belle morte." I heard rain pattering on the sides of the building, stroking the windows behind his words. No thunder, though. The storm had passed.

"I should." I stripped my hair away from my face. I really had to find something to tie it back. "Last time you saw me, I'd just been hit by a hover. Where's Lucas?" I wanted a little tete-a-tete with him, to touch gravbase and also-more importantly-to ask him what they talked about when I wasn't in the room.

"Gathering information." The Nichtvren inclined his head, his gaze flowing slow and gelid over my body. "I would have loved to Turn you, cherie."

That was a high compliment from a Nichtvren, but I never want to hear a bloodsucking Master contemplate any of my vital fluids.

"Thanks for the compliment." I settled for a shrug worthy of Japhrimel. My eyes flicked over the room, full of heavy pseudo- antique furniture. Drapes pulled tight over the windows, a nivron fire in a grate. The room was done in red and brown, a graceless slashed painting of a bowl of fruit hung over the fire. Two tables, a collection of heavy chairs. Bella crouched by the fire, her eyes closed. The Asiano Magi hunched over a table spread with papers, his sword close at hand. Today he wore a Chinese-collared shirt and a long brown coat, as if he was cold. He also looked extremely nervous. He was pale under the rich color of his skin, and his hair was sticking up like a crow's nest.

Vann peered out the window, tweezing the ancient curtain aside. He held a very respectable Glockstryke laserifle, with an ease that told me he knew how to use it. "McKinley should be back by now," he said darkly.

I looked past him-a fire escape going down to a dark alley. A good escape route, or a good way for an enemy to sneak up on us.

I shook my head, backing away from the window. My hair fell in my face again, I pushed it back.

"He can look after himself," Japhrimel replied. "Do not worry on his account."

The Necromance I'd seen in the sparhall tipped me a lazy salute from a chair set in a dark corner, his long legs outstretched. His emerald spat a single spark, my cheek burned again in answer, the inked lines of my tat running under my skin.

Gods above. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Nice way to thank a man who saved your life," he answered in a low, clear voice. "I was following you; saw you get hit with that hover. Your . . . ah, demon there, he shunted the reaction fire straight up and repaired the damage. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

He rose easily; he was tall when he wasn't hunching. Dark eyes, dark hair, unshaven cheeks blurring his tat a little. Nice mouth.

Lines around the eyes-he wasn't young. "I'm Leander Beaudry."

My jaw didn't quite drop, but it was close. "The Leander? The Mayan reconstructionist?" I knew he looked familiar. What's he doing here, and why isn't he laser-shaved according to the Codes? It was time to measure him out.

He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. I'd seen that smile on holovids, no wonder he looked familiar. He'd made his professional name sorting out the skeletal remains of ancient Centro and Sudro Merican sacrificial victims, in some cases raising their apparitions so linguists and anthropologists could question them; then he'd moved to Egypt and worked on the tombs there. I hadn't heard any gossip about him for a while. "And you're Danny Valentine. I'm honored. I'm working Freetowns." He indicated his fuzzy cheek.

Ah. No Necromance codes out here. He was trained Hegemony, but he works bounties. Probably not very good at following orders, been doing freelance for a while. Nice to know. "I read about Egypt. Raising Ramses for the Hegemony Historicals. Nice work-I saw the holovid." You kept his apparition up for a good forty-five minutes, very nice work indeed.

I heard you're pretty good with an edged weapon, you brought in Alexei Hollandveiss alive and trussed up like a Putchkin Yule turkey. That's right, you specialize in cold-case bounties.

He completed the psionic equivalent of dogs sniffing each other's rumps by meeting my eyes. "Well, mummies are easier than cremains. You're the one who raised Saint Crowley the Magi. And the Choyne Towers." That managed to make me shudder. It was one of the jobs that had made my reputation as the best Necromance in the world, one capable of raising apparitions from bits of bodies instead of the whole corpses, the fresher the better, that other Necromances needed. A Putchkin transport had failed and crashed into the three Choyne Towers, and I'd worked for weeks raising and identifying the dead-all but the last ten, who must have been vaporized. Thanks for reminding me. I looked down at his hands, scarred and bruised from swordfighting and working the heavy bag. "Why were you following me?" A faint tone of challenge.

"Not every day I see a tat I recognize on the face of a holovid angel. Was curious. Did a few stunts with Jace Monroe in Nuevo Rio before he went solo. He always talked about you."

"Did he." I looked away first, down at the floor. My chest tightened. He'd talked about me? What had he said? "Well, you've fallen into bad company."

"Looks like you've got a hunt going. I want in."

Everything I'd ever heard said he was direct. "Ask Japhrimel." I tipped my head back. Japh had gone still and silent behind me, the mark on my left shoulder turned molten-hot. I paced over to the table the Magi was hunched over and pulled out a chair, dropping down and presenting the Necromance with my profile. "I normally don't work in groups, but it seems I'm overruled." I looked down at the papers, started shuffling through them. Maps of New Prague, magscans, sheets covered with cramped, crabbed Magi codewriting. I glanced at the Asiano, who said nothing. His eyes glittered at me, and I saw how tight his hand was on his swordhilt.

He's afraid of me. Why? My left hand tightened on my scabbard as I stared back at him. The room had gone hot and tense.

"What do we have?"

The Asiano shifted in his seat, said nothing.

I heard Leander move, leather boots creaking. "If you're hunting demons, you'll need every hand you can get. I'm trustworthy, I've got a reputation to protect just like you do."

The Asiano handed me a blue file folder. The mark on my shoulder crunched with heat, another flush of Power tingling along my skin. "Fine." I glanced up at Leander, flipped the file open. "I told you to ask Japh. I'm not the one in charge here."

"Could have fooled me," Leander muttered. He turned on his heel, facing Japh. "What do you say, then? I've done bounties in every Freetown on earth, and I'm bored. A demon should be a nice change."

"If you like." Japhrimel sounded chill and precise. Why? It wasn't like him to care about something like this. "You are here on Dante's sufferance, then, Necromance. Since you rendered her aid."

Amaric Velokel, I read. Then a twisted, fluid glyph-the demon's name in their harsh unlovely language. The glyph had lines scratched out and redrawn, obviously the Magi was working on figuring out if there was more to it. A combination of divination and codebreaking, feeling around for a demon's Name, sidestepping countermeasures and protections that the demon would use to keep its identity a secret.