Adrian Breze stuck his hands in their thin leather gloves into the pockets of his jacket and closed his eyes, blanking the flow of his interior monologue until his mind was still and quiet and wary. Awareness of his surroundings swelled, until he was one with the cool fall day. Somewhere a dog grew aware of him, whined and went quiet; a cat on the other side of the street blinked from a windowsill, radiating an idle curiosity. The little house off Airport Road still had the yellow police tape across its doors, but he didn't think anyone was watching. Sink in, sink in…
Nothing. A few people in the other houses in the subdivision, young children and their mothers mostly; one adult peeking through the windows at his Ferrari for a moment, then shrugging aside a vague wonder. The suburb was solidly lower-middle-class and composed of flat-roofed frame houses making a feeble imitation of the haute-fake imitation adobe downtown, just the sort of place you'd expect a policeman to live in Santa Fe's high-cost, low-wage economy. He opened his eyes again and gave Ellen a quick slight nod where she sat behind the wheel of the low-slung sports car, felt her mind acknowledge it. She was wearing a scarf around her hair, and sunglasses, both absolutely unexceptional on a bright Wednesday afternoon. He was in jeans and ankle boots and a T-shirt, equally normal; the jacket was credible with the temperature in the mid-sixties, though he was actually wearing it to conceal the Glock and long curved knife the harness held on either flank.
There was a goat-stick fence beside the garage, five-foot unpeeled pinon sticks. He took three quick strides and vaulted over it, a hand lightly touching one of the poles, and came down silently on the balls of his feet. The backyard was similarly fenced all the way 'round; he wasn't hidden, exactly, but it was better than a wire barrier would have been. There was a weedy-looking Russian olive tree, a half-dead lilac, and plenty of genuine weeds, including the ferocious local goat's head, which dropped a little three-pointed seed that could cripple the barefoot or puncture tires. He thought of those as nature's caltrops. The rest was bare dirt, though his nose detected the recent presence of a dog. A bachelor's yard, one owned by a man without the time or interest to spend on appearances, right down to the battered barbecue grill that had gone a long time between cleanings.
He wrinkled his nose; there were drawbacks to the acute Shadowspawn senses. And beneath the old scorched meat and dog feces, a strong trace of rotting blood that made his lips start to draw up in a hunter's snarl. Adrian went to the glass sliding doors that gave onto a stretch of cracked concrete patio and produced a thin, slightly curved piece of steel. A moment's fiddling, a quick strong jerk, and something went click inside. He could have done the same with the Power, but he'd long ago decided to save that for purposes where nothing else would do.
Once he was inside the scent of old blood was much stronger; even a normal human would have found it unpleasant. Even decayed, it bore the traces of unbearable pain and raw terror; when fresh it would have been maddeningly appetizing. He followed it towards the single bedroom. Something else tickled at the senses there, the esoteric ones that came with his degree of the Power. Another Shadowspawn had been here, a powerful adept, either postcorporeal or night-walking. The traces were faint, too faint to identify an individual, but unmistakable. Gluttonous satisfaction as well, the killing frenzy and repletion. There was no need to go nearer to the outlines still painted on the floor or marked in tape on the tumbled, black-stained sheets. Instead he went to one knee and looked at the floor, bracing himself with a forearm on his thigh.
Black and rusty-brown, flaking away in the dry high-desert air, but the outlines of shoes were still visible, if you knew how to look. Someone had come in the front door and stood looking into the room with his feet in the pooling blood. Then he'd kicked off the shoes, stepped back out of the blood and turned…
He followed the tracks. The place they led had been a bedroom on the original plans, redone as a study-den-entertainment center. One wall held a fairly big flat-screen, a Chinese-made early 3D model half a decade out-of-date. There were a couple of-rather bad-pictures of local landscapes, bookshelves that held a mixture of popular fiction and well-read volumes on police methods and forensics, law books and a desktop computer. The unknown had come in, sat in the office chair and used it.
Adrian extended a hand over the machine and concentrated.
Interesting, he thought. The hard drive hasn't been pulled or wiped. Whoever was in charge here didnt do a real investigation; they just went through enough of the motions to fool outsiders. As I suspected, the Tokairin had someone sit on it. And someone – Michiko at a guess, the traces feel a little female – came out to tie up the loose ends. But whoever sat here at the computer took something from it…
He switched it on, pulled a data stick from his pocket and snapped it into the serial port. Electronic pseudothoughts tickled at him as he waited for it to suck the larger machine dry.
Yes, a file copied just before the machine was shut down. I think Shadowspawn technophobia is about to give me a lead, he thought. So much for the Progressive faction.
This time he did let himself snarl. The low, guttural sound filled the house of death.
"Oh, my," Ellen said as they walked through the door. "Doesn't this bring back memories."
Adrian's house west of Santa Fe was large but not a palace, a low-slung, sprawling single-story thing built of genuine adobe as well as concrete and steel, in a style that mixed the area's traditions with a restrained modernism. The door was tall and sheathed with copper, facing the drive along the ridgeway that led to this point where cliffs fell from steep to sheer on three sides. She looked at the door…
"Silver underneath?" she said. "Plus a little something for people rude enough to use explosive door knockers? I noted the fields of fire outside this time! And the cliff protects the other side."
"Silver, but of course." He grinned at her; she could tell he was enjoying both her wit and her pleasure in it. "And ceramic-steel composite sandwiched in between."
Damn, but I'm lucky to get a man who doesn't feel threatened by smart women. Of course, he's also a blood-drinking shape-shifter…but that's a feature, not a bug. It's not like cigarettes, after all. As long as we keep it to what my bone marrow can supply, there's no downside for either of us.
"In fact," he went on, "this hill is mostly silver ore. Not very rich silver, there was an attempt at a mine once but it did not pay, not enough precious metal spread through far too much very hard rock. Still, it is…was…why I picked this spot."
"And I thought it was the view," she said dryly. "Your being-high-up fetish."
"This from one with a tie-me-up-and-whip-me fetish?" he said, and ducked as she swiped at him.
Then he threw the bags through the door and swept her up to cross it; they were kissing and laughing as he bore her into the hallway beneath the vaulted exposed-metal roof. She leaned into his shoulder, enjoying the steel-cord strength of his embrace; then his arms locked hard around her and there was a nip at the base of her throat, and a hard suction. She shivered as warmth seemed to flow out from the bite, like scented soap suds in a bath of hot water sliding over her skin, leaving her whole body warm and flushed in an almost unbearable relaxation.
"Ah," she said a moment later, shuddering. "Now, that was what I call a welcome home."
"Welcome home, then," he said, striding through into the living room.
That had a glass wall overlooking the vast blue distance northwestward. That fell away to the high plain below in a tumble of boulders and canyons, juniper and pinon, home to eagles and deer and coyote. The room was spotless-Adrian's housekeeping service-but had the slightly lifeless feel to its air that came of long vacancy, with only a very faint scent of satchets and pine ash from the hearth.
God, it's nearly a full year since I stormed out and Adrienne caught me! she thought. Not that I actually ever lived here, unless you count the odd overnight.
"Well, put me down and we'll get unpacked," she said.
"Not quite yet," he said, setting her on her feet in front of him; the arms stayed around her, but now the hands roved.
"Mmm, nice…but we do need to get unpack- Yeeek!"
He pulled the dress up over her head, then down again behind her with a single strong jerk that pinned her arms tightly. Another two, and the bra and panties went flying in silken wisps; she had a moment's pang as she remembered the Parisian shopping expedition they'd managed to squeeze in, when she'd gone berserk in the lingerie section of a boutique on the rue Saint-Honore.
"Adrian…God, that feels good…Adrian, the door's still open! And we're in front of a picture window! "
"Fresh air and sunlight are good for you, wench."
A push between the shoulder blades sent her staggering forward; the arm of a couch struck her across the thighs, and she pitched forward with her toes just touching the slate flags of the floor. Goose bumps rose in the chilly air, and at the touch of the leather cushions on her belly and breasts.
"Ooof!" Then she wiggled. "Like the view, masterful Shadowspawn, sir? Ow!"
That at a stinging smack across one buttock, before he gripped her hips with a power just short of real pain, or perhaps slightly across the border.
Sometime later she stretched and giggled; she could hear Adrian's heart thudding against her back, but the weight was going from fun to not.
"Okay, playtime's over, let me up."
He rose, sighing, and she laughed again; she had a beautiful view of part of a sunset, if she craned her head up until her neck hurt. The way she was positioned she also couldn't rise, unless she was willing to roll onto the floor and run around with everything swaying and/or exposed.
"Get me back on my feet, would you, honey?"
"Oh, perhaps I should leave you like that while I make dinner. You look quite fetching that way, ma belle."
Ellen laughed again. "Another time, when I don't need to pee. Earwax! Earwax!"
"Ah, before the omnipotent power of the mighty safe word, the evil sorcerer has no choice save obedience."
"You betcha, lover. I'm in charge here, and don't you forget it!"
"Never, my sweet."
It was hard to sound authoritative with your stern high in the air like this and a cold breeze on intimate places, but Ellen thought she'd managed it. Adrian helped her up with gentle force and freed her from the macrame of clothing. She stretched and they exchanged a long, slow kiss.
"Now let's have a shower, and then I shall lounge about in a fluffy robe drinking hot cocoa before the fire while my adoring Paris-trained love slave makes me dinner and lights the candles and opens the wine," she said.
His yellow-flecked eyes shared hers for a moment, then went a little cool.
He shrugged. "Sorry. I was just thinking how good it would be if we were really coming home here now, with nothing to do but live our lives."
"I have every intention of living our lives regardless," she said. "Besides, I was raised to do things. Gentlewoman of leisure will be fine later; there's a world that needs saving…and I really do have to pee now."
"Oh, God," Ellen said, waving her wineglass at the polished cocobolo wood that lined the big elevator. "A secret elevator in the back of the bedroom closet leading to the underground lair? Shouldn't this be in a volcano on a tropical island, or something? Either that or give onto a wilderness with a lamppost and a talking lion."
Adrian grinned at her, lounging back against the wall with his arms crossed; the ventilation system was so good that she didn't even mind the fact that he was smoking, much.
"So, where's the button?"
"There's a minor Wreaking in the control circuits. Unless someone more of an adept than I comes along, the door will not open and the elevator will not operate except for those whom I, mmmm, put on the list."
"So how do I do it."
"You are on the list. Just think open or down."
He blew smoke at the ceiling; she schooled her thoughts, concentrating on down…
"Eh, voila," he said, as the sinking feeling began, gesturing with the cigarette.
She had to admit it did give a nice period touch to the retro glamour of his black turtleneck and pants tucked into ankle boots. So did the sheathed knife and automatic, but she knew now that he was almost never willingly unarmed; it must have been a real effort to conceal the fact when they were first dating. She had known that he owned guns and went to a range, and mildly disapproved.
You aren't Granola Girl anymore, she thought. Then something occurred to her.
"Honey?"
"Mmmm?"
"Feeding means you really want to make out, and vice versa, right?"
"Yes. The drives are powerfully linked. Harvey has some interesting speculations on the evolutionary pathways."
She snorted and shook her head; yellow hair still slightly damp from a shower and long soak flew around her shoulders.
"Harvey can keep his big Texan nose out of my love life. The reason I asked was…well, when we made love before, when I didn't know…wasn't that sort of hard on you? I mean, you must have wanted to bite me really badly."
"Yes," he said, his voice bleak.
"God, Adrian, you must have willpower like a titanium steel forging!"
He shrugged eloquently. "If I did not, I would be a very bad man. Very bad indeed."
"Yeah, I got some idea of that with Adrienne. But it sort of makes me feel guilty. I never had much respect for cock teasers, and there I was being an involuntary vein teaser."
He winced. "Now you are inflicting pain, my love," he said. "There is nothing I would change about you, except possibly the occasional pun. It is a low taste. I would expect better out of someone with your education."
She grinned. "What can I say? You can take the girl out of Swoyersville, but you can't take the Swoyersville out of the girl."
The lift came to a halt and the doors slid open silently. Ellen whistled quietly.
"How deep are we?"
"Several hundred feet below the level of the house, and rather more in from any surface, except for the escape tunnels."
Her imagination poised the weight of hard rock over her head. The corridor before them gave no hint of it, except for the lack of windows. The ceiling was smooth groin-vaulted plasterwork, and easily fifteen feet high; the walls were stucco, except for a strip of Mexican mosaic tile along both sides. The floor was pale streaked marble, with a rug down the center that felt hard under her slippered feet; gaily dyed sisal, with an African look. The recessed lighting brightened automatically as they entered, and the air was a perfect seventy degrees with just enough humidity to be comfortable.
Which is more than you can say about most of New Mexico; I've spent a fortune on skin moisturizers since I moved out here.
Ellen smiled a little at Adrian's boyish pride in his ingenuity as he showed her around. The living quarters were bigger than the house above; if you included some shutdown chambers rigged dormitory style, several dozen people could live here in moderate comfort. There were kitchens, storerooms with supplies sufficient for years, workshops, an armory that even now made her mind stutter a little with the illegality of it all, but which included bows and swords and an array of knives, garrotes and assorted implements of preindustrial mayhem.
"The Power," he explained.
"Right, the more complicated, the worse," she said, and touched a rocket launcher. "I suppose guidance systems are dead easy?"
"Even Harvey or his friends…"
"Jack Farmer and Guha?"
"Them, or hundreds of others…could make them do loop-the-loops. Still, they are useful in some situations, particularly for a first strike if you can take the target by surprise."
There was even a swimming pool, doubling as a multithousand-gallon water reservoir. That was perfectly sanitary, with the right filtration system. The understated elegance of polished stone that surrounded it was just a bonne bouche, she supposed.
On the way back to the library-den she spoke:
"Hate to have the lights go out."
"Industrial-type stack fuel cells," he said, pointing over one shoulder. "The natural gas comes from beneath us, a trickle but good for a century or two, and there's a backup diesel system."
"Ah-hmm," she said, nodding her head and pursing her full lips. " Definitely ought to be in a volcano. And you should have a Nehru jacket and be stroking a white Persian cat."
At his look Ellen made a disgusted sound. "You are the least genre-savvy man in history!" Then she caught his grin. "Or the most deceitful."
"In fact, I helped build a base in a volcano, for the Brotherhood; helped with the Wreakings for concealment and protection. That was in a remote part of Ecuador, mountain jungle east of the Andes. The local tribes were headhunters not long ago. It even had a monorail."
Go on!
"Yes…no, I lie about the monorail. But it was in a volcano; for the geothermal energy." His face sobered. "Like this, it was a preparation for…something like Operation Trimback. That is why it is a Faraday cage, as well as having lab-level air filters. Proof against anything but a direct hit with a nuclear bunker buster."
"Ouch."
He cleared his throat. "Come, let us return to the surface. The ragout will be ready soon, there is just enough time for me to do the asparagus. But we may well be sleeping down here for the next few days."
"Why?" she said. "It's comfy, but just a teensy bit…psychologically stuffy."
"The silver, my love. If Michiko is really attending to the matter of these detectives herself, it will be very good concealment; she will be expecting the Wreakings I set and will not pay much attention to them. And according to that so-valuable file I lifted from the dead man's computer, his partner intended to come and have a look around here, and it would appeal to Michiko to kill him on my ground; but this underground section has many sheltered exits, some of which give excellent overwatch positions on the house, which we could reach without being detected. I am afraid we are using Salvador as a tethered goat to lure in the tiger."
"Michiko prefers a snow leopard when she's night-walking," Ellen said. "She's a Gucci were-whatever. Has to be maximum pretty for the atrocity party."
Adrian nodded. "Another weakness. I suspect he will not mind being the goat, if things go badly for the beast. And he could be useful to us. You and I, together, with her distracted, might well put an end to her."
"Ah," Ellen said. A hot flush ran over her skin. "Oh, I would so like to meet Michiko again under…different circumstances and show her that the fun-to-kill-you thing works both ways."
Adrian made a tsk sound. "You have been associating with me too much, my sweet."
"Nope. It was associating with her that gave me the motivation. You've just shown me how. Lead on to the ragout."
"I shall. And…I have a good feeling about this."
"That's reassuring."
"Unless Michiko is having one too. We shall have to see who grasps the world-lines with the Power more strongly."
"You mean we have to make our own luck."
His grin was slow and savage, and she answered it in kind.
"Literally," he said. "Quite literally."
The road to Adrian Breze's house was ten miles north on the I-25 and then west. The empty highway stretched through the night, cool air flowing in through the open windows as the tires hummed. Eric Salvador knew he was going to his death-but maybe he'd learn something. Maybe the world would make sense again.
Since when has it made sense anyway? I'm thirty-two years old, no wife, no kids, and my best friend died because I couldn't figure out what was going on. The only thing I've ever been any good at was killing people and frightening them. Cesar had twice my brains and now he's dead and his girl's dead and I cant make myself think about what I think…I know really did it.
And maybe they're dead because I wouldn't say it, because I was afraid of being called a nut. Or actually being a nut… am I crazy? Or is the world?
West, and then north again on a dirt road. The Sangres low on the horizon in the light of the three-quarter moon. That and the stars were the only light as the last gas station fell away.
He hesitated for a moment, and then snapped off the car lights himself. That was a commitment, acknowledging to himself that the extra danger was justified by the value of surprise. Something at the back of his brain wanted to reach up and pull down the night-sight goggles on the helmet he wasn't wearing.
Only a few distant earthbound stars marked houses. The road turned winding in the pitch-dark night, and then there was a steep drop to his left, a hundred near-vertical feet; this was the edge of the plateau. He forced himself to stop when the wheels skidded and a spray of gravel fanned out and out of sight.
He clenched his hands on the wheel and made his breathing slow, smelling the sourness of his own sweat, tobacco and booze. Then he held one hand before his face until the trembling stopped. He was in shitty shape, not enough sleep or exercise and too many smokes and drinks.
"Am I trying to kill myself?" he murmured. Then: "No. Not yet. I've got to find out what this all means. I just wish I was in better condition for a fight. Not twenty anymore, got to work harder at it."
He did the next hundred yards with the engine off, rolling downhill dead slowly. After that, driving was too dangerous without lights. Instead he got out and walked down the last stretch of road, taking his time and placing his feet carefully, thanking his father and uncles for taking him hunting, and the corps for making him even more familiar with moving quietly through unlighted countryside after sunset. The night scents were strong, the sweaty leather of chamise, the strong resin of the bleeding pines. An owl went by overhead with a woot-woot-woot, and something that might be a coyote or just a big rabbit scrambled through the scrub downslope. Gravel crunched under his feet-it was nearly a year since Adrian Breze had vanished, and the housekeeper came in only once a month to clean, but there were a few more ruts than that would account for.
Someone's coming here. Just lately.
The house itself was built right into the edge of the cliff; the final dip in the road left him looking down on its fieldstone-and-adobe walls. It seemed to squat, as menacing as those huddles of cubes you saw in the stans, with a distant family resemblance to a pueblo. Then his experienced eye took in the dispositions.
Hey, whoever built this had a firefight in mind. You can't tell until you re up close, but it's a fucking fort. No big windows this side, no ground-level holes in the wall big enough to get through, the others right above a sheer cliff. Great, now I expect an MG to open up from a bunker.
He took his gun in his hand. That hadn't done Cesar any good at all, but it made him feel a little better down below logic. Closer, closer…it didn't feel as empty as it should. He got out his illegal forced-entry kit, kept for those rare unspoken occasions when you said, Fuck the rules; then something made him reach out a hand and push. The high copper-surfaced door swung open to his touch, and a few soft lights came on under the high metal ceiling. The floor was trendy polished concrete in a mottled beige color, with colorful Navajo rugs.
Yeah, about what I expected, he thought, tucking away the leather folder of tools and blinking as his dark-adapted eyes adjusted. Hombre, this is the OK Corral.
The whole of the opposite wall was glass, right at the edge of the cliff; very clear glass, and now that he thought about it, probably the laminated, bullet-resistant type. The land fell in crags and gullies washed pale by the moon, until the rolling surface of the semidesert stretched eastward to the edge of sight. There were a couple of pictures on the walls, ancient and beautiful even to an untrained eye. He drifted through the house, feeling like a ghost in its well-kept emptiness, and then took up a position by the big wall-size stone hearth opposite the windows, where he had maximum situational awareness.
"Why did I think I could find something here?" he said aloud, just barely moving his lips, as he waited and anticipation turned a little sour. "Besides learning that the rich don't live like the rest of us. I have got to get my groove back. I wouldn't have lasted a week on the rock pile like this. But I was so sure-"
"Maybe a little bird told you."
The voice seemed to come from behind him. He wheeled. Nothing. Back again…and the woman was there. A spurt of dreadful joy filled him. This wasn't a dream, or pixels. That was an actual person in front of him. Granted, she was naked and where nobody should be…
He raised the Glock in the regulation grip, left hand under right.
Crack. Crack.
The ten-millimeter bullets punched into her belly and she folded backwards.
Crack.
Two in the center of mass, one in the head; the last snapped her head around in a whirling of long black hair and a spray of blood and the bullet starred through the glass behind her. He felt his teeth begin to show as he walked towards her. The gold-flecked eyes were already beginning to glaze.
Then her head came up. "Oooooh, that hurt," she said. "That can be sort of hot, you know? For starters. Then I get to hurt you. You like that, lover?"
Salvador leapt backwards, almost fell as he half sprawled against a malachite-surfaced table of rough-cast glass, then wrenched himself into a crouched firing position.
Crack. Crack. Crack -
Ten shots. Five hit. Five more punched the great window behind, starring it, then collapsing it out in a shatter of milky fragments. Even then the part of his mind that was mostly training thought that was odd if it was the laminate he thought it was.
"Oooooh, oooooh, you're so rough," the thing crooned as it advanced on him, laughing.
A hand reached out towards his neck. Then jerked back as she hissed:
"We really have to do something about those silver chains. Maybe we could make people think they cause cancer?"
She dabbed at the blood on the side of her head and stuck the fingers in her mouth for a moment, tongue curling around them.
"Mmmmm, tasty!"But you want to take that stupid chain off, don't you…that's right…"
The eyes grew, the yellow flecks drawing together like drops of molten gold, running into two lakes of fire. Depth, depth, drawing him into a whirling She screamed, pain and rage. The great ten-foot wings beat behind her as the talons slammed home and the hooked beak drove into her neck. The snow leopard rolled over and over – leopard? – its paws striking in a blur of speed and claws amid a saw-edged screeching. The eagle dropped out of the air into a huge tawny something and the big cats rolled over and over, shrieking and striking and lunging for each other's throats and racking their hind feet to rip bellies as furniture smashed and broken glass crunched under their weight.
Then the man was standing with his back to Salvador, every muscle in his lean body standing out like static waves as his thumbs dug into her throat. She was making the same bestial snarling sound as she reared back with a knee braced against his chest and her hands driving up between his forearms, and the world seemed to twist between them, things flickering in and out of existence, nightmare glimpses of possibilities that ought not to exist. Salvador doggedly began to drag himself to his feet, looking around for something to throw. Something to hit with.
Crack!
Much louder this time. The double splash of impact and her skull started to deform under the huge kinetic energy, and then a sparkle, and she was gone. Blood fell to the floor, a sharp, sour, iron-salt smell, and stomach contents; he recognized the acidic not-quite-vomit fecal stink. The man went to one knee for a second, panting, then rose and turned.
"You're Adrian Breze," Salvador said, trying to make his mind function again.
The gun came up, almost of its own volition. The slim dark man pointed a finger at him.
"Don't. Just don't. It's been a long day. And you need silver bullets for it to work."
"Silver bullets?" Salvador snarled. "Silver fucking bullets -"
Adrian Breze cast a glance over his shoulder; the first paling of the night sky showed that dawn was coming, and he winced a little.
"It becomes late for night-walking; I'd better go corporeal. Right back, Detective Salvador, when I've fetched my real body."
Silver bullets. I don't think I want to be in a world where silver bullets work and people just…stop being there.
Salvador looked down at the pistol. Why the hell not? he thought, and began to bring it up towards his mouth. That's safer. Only amateurs try to shoot themselves in the head…
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Why don't you kill me? Why don't you kill me?" he screamed. " Why don't you just fucking kill me?"
"That's 'why don't they fucking kill you,'" the man said. "I can tell you, if you want to know."
"You're one of them."
Breze was slight but built like a lynx or a gymnast, a bit below medium height, pale olive skin and dark hair and gold-flecked brown eyes…
"You're Adrian Breze? Yes."
Salvador drew breath in, held it, let it out. "Okay, I get it: I'm supposed to believe you're a good monster."
"Oh, he's not just good, he's a great monster, believe me. But all mine, mine, mine."
Salvador jerked at the other voice, looked down at the pistol, then ejected the magazine, worked the slide to take the last round out of the chamber, and dropped it to the table he was sitting on. A worked-copper-and-turquoise box had spilled open, full of slim cigarettes. He took one out and lit it; some distant part of himself was proud of the fact that his hand didn't shake. The second voice belonged to a woman.
Tall, blond, legs up to there, hourglass figure, dressed in dark outdoor clothes and boots, with a knit cap over her head and a rifle cradled in her arms-he recognized it, a big Brit sniper job he'd seen SAS types use, long scope, aircraft-alloy body. This one looked as if it had been tweaked a bit in ways he didn't recognize. Her face was a little thinner and a lot harder than the pictures, not so much of the wounded-fawn look; he recognized part of what waited in the blue eyes, from his mirror.
"You're…Ellen Tarnowski."
"Technically, Ellen Breze, now. No, I'm not one of them. You can't catch it from getting bitten, it's hereditary." A sudden charming smile. "And believe me, I know the biting part! Not contagious at all, even if you're married to one and use the same toothbrush occasionally."
"I get the feeling you've changed."
"I had to…ah…take a couple of levels in badass, let's say."
"You killed her."
His eyes went back to the puddle of blood; there wasn't a body. A pretty disgusting mess, but no body.
" Oh, yes." Her eyes were large and turquoise blue; for a moment they held a hot satisfaction. "There's a body, probably a long way away, but it's empty now, and in a little while it'll just stop breathing. Nobody home anymore. I put a bullet through that part of the bitch."
"That…that wasn't his sister, was it?"
"No. That was Michiko. She's a friend of his sister's, Adrienne. Sort of a wannabe Mistress of Ultimate Darkness. Incidentally I jammed a hypo full of very bad stuff into Adrienne's foot, and I had a lot of very good reasons to do that. And she came down with a case of dead from it."
Salvador laughed; it was a bit shaky, but genuine. "I think you have changed, lady."
Breze was back. Now he was dressed, in the same sort of clothes; a light jacket covered a shoulder rig with a knife worn hilt-down on one flank and a Glock on the other.
His real body. Oooooo-kay.
"All right," Salvador said, taking a pull on the cigarette. "Fill me in. I know I'm really somewhere locked up, under heavy meds, howling at the moon, right? Or totally catatonic. I lost it in Kandahar and I'm in a padded cell at some VA warehouse and the whole last ten years are a whack-job dream."
For some reason that made Adrian Breze smile. "I'm a Shadowspawn…That's what we call ourselves, mostly. But…well, I try not to be a monster. It's complicated."
"Like the past year has been so simple? I want answers."
"Think carefully about that, Detective. You can choose to learn, or you can choose to forget…I can do that, with your cooperation. If you forget, you can make yourself a new life. If you learn, it'll probably kill you-but at least you'll know why you're fighting, mon ami!"
"If you offer me a blue pill and a red pill I'll fucking kill you!"
The couple laughed. "It's actually two file cards with Mhabrogast glyphs, but otherwise yes, life imitates old film. Take your pick," the man said.
He produced two squares of light pasteboard, sat, and began to draw on them with a black Sharpie, the movements fluid and sure. Spiky-looking symbols grew on both pieces of paper; something made him look away slightly, as if seeing them produced an itch four inches behind his eyes.
Then he held up one: "Knowledge-and you can try being the guerrilla." The other: "Ignorance-and long life. Longer, probably, at least."
Salvador looked at the butt of the cigarette. Then he tossed it accurately into the blood; it hissed into extinction.
"Like that's really a choice?"
"Yes, very much so," Breze said. "You could probably choose to forget, and be…not safe. Not in any more danger than the rest of the human race, at least." Okay.
He took a deep breath. Just having all this go away was a little tempting…until he remembered that he'd still be swimming with sharks.
Only I wouldn't know they're there. Not until they bite my ass off.
"I have got a lot of payback coming and I need to know how to get to the people who owe me. Right, I embrace the suck, it isn't the first time. Let's start with some explanations."
There was a subdued clack-snack-snick as the blonde cleared her rifle and put it down on the stone ledge before the empty fireplace.
"No," she said. " You guys start by sweeping up the glass and mopping that blood. Then we go…downstairs to the dungeon, and we talk."