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I stamped down on my left heel, my weight spi
Riding freight is different, the freight hovers are much bigger and their backwash mixes with more hovercells and reactive to make the air go all fu
— watch that big rig there, catch, fingernails screeching on plasteel, hovercells whining under the load, board's got a wobble, watch it, lean back stamp down hard going up, ducking under a whipping freight hover, my hair kissing plasteel, rings showering golden sparks, coat flying, weaving in and out of the hovers like a mosquito among albatrosses, this is what it feels like to be alive, alive, alive…
Heart pounding, copper laid against my tongue, Valkyrie screaming, lips peeled back from teeth and breath coming in long gasps, legs balancing the she, the friction of my boot soles the only thing between me and a long fall to the hard pavement below.
I fell in behind a police cruiser that was whipping between freights, going siren-silent. They'd already sca
When I finally dropped back to streetside, hips swaying, body singing, I brought the Valkyrie to a stop right outside the Arms and hopped down. My hair fell in my face, my shoulders were loose and easy for the first time since a booming knock on my door had sounded in the rain.
Japhrimel leaned against the window of the Arms, neon light spilling through the glass and glowing against his wetblack hair. He held my bag and my sword, and his knuckles stood out white against the scabbard.
I tapped the board up, flipping off the powercell, and let out a gusty sigh. "Hey," I said. "Anything cool happen while I was gone?"
He simply stared at me, his jaw set and stone-hard.
I carried the board back inside and gave it to Ko
Japhrimel handed my bag over, and my sword. His silence was immense, and it wasn't until I looked closer that I noticed a vertical line between his coal-black eyebrows. "What?" I asked him, slightly aggrieved. Rain-washed air blew through the canyon streets, brushing my tangled hair and making his long coat lift a little, brushing his legs.
This is a demon, I thought, and you're not screaming or ru
"I would rather," he said quietly, "not do that again."
"Do what again?"
"That was foolish and dangerous, Dante." He wasn't looking at me; he studied the pavement with much apparent interest.
I shrugged. I couldn't explain to a demon that a slicboard was the only way to prove I was still alive, after lying cheek-by-jowl with death and tasting bitter ash on my tongue. Neither could I explain to him that it was either the slic or the sparring cage, and I didn't like cages of any kind. Besides, it didn't matter to the demon that I needed to prove I was alive after bringing a soul over the bridge and feeling the cold stiffness of rotting death in my own limbs. "Come on. We've got to visit Abra."
"I would like your word that you will not leave me behind again," he said quietly. "If you please, Mistress."
"Don't call me that." I turned away from him, slinging my bag against my hip, and was about to stalk away when he caught my arm.
"Please, Dante. I do not want to lose my only chance at freedom for a human's foolishness. Please."
I was about to tear my arm out of his hand when I realized he was asking me politely, and saying please as well. I stared at him, biting my lower lip, thinking this over. A muscle flicked in his smooth golden jaw.
"Okay," I said finally. "You have my word."
He blinked. This was the second time in my life I'd ever seen a demon nonplussed.
We stood like that, the demon holding my arm and staring at my face, for about twenty of the longest seconds of my life so far. Then I moved, tugging my arm away from him, glancing up to check the weather. Still mostly clear, some high scudding clouds and the relentless orange wash of citylight. "We've got to get moving," I said, not unkindly. "Abra gets mean later on in the night."
He nodded. Did I imagine the vertical crease between his eyebrows getting deeper? He looked puzzled.
"What?" I asked.
He said nothing, just shrugged and spread his hands to indicate helplessness. When I set off down the sidewalk he walked beside me, his hands clasped behind his back, his head down, and a look of such profound thoughtfulness on his face I half-expected him to start floating a few feet off the pavement.
"Japhrimel?" I said finally.
"Hm?" He didn't look up, avoiding a broken bottle on the pavement with unca
"You're not bad, you know. For a demon. You're not bad at all."
He seemed to smile very faintly at that. And oddly enough, that smile was nice to see.
CHAPTER 17
Abra's shop was out on Klondel Avenue, a really ugly part of town even for the Tank District. Abracadabra Pawnshop We Make Miracles Happen! was scratched on the window with faded gilt lettering. An exceptionally observant onlooker would notice that there were no graffiti tags on Abra's storefront, and that the pavement outside her glass door with its iron bars was suspiciously clean.
Inside, the smell of dust and human desperation vied with the spicy smell of beef stew with chili peppers. The indifferent hardwood flooring creaked underfoot, and Abra sat behind the counter in her usual spot, on a three-legged stool. She had long dark curly hair and liquid dark eyes, a nondescript face. She wore a blue and silver caftan and large golden hoops in her ears. I had once asked if she was a gypsy. Abra had laughed, and replied, Aren't we all?
I had to give her that one.
Racks of merchandise stood neatly on the wood floor, slicboards and guitars hung up behind the glassed-in counter that sparkled dustily with jewelry. Her stock did seem to rotate fairly frequently, but I'd never seen anyone come into Abra's to buy anything physical.