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The color drained from her dark face. She spread her hand over the paper, not quite touching it, fingers trembling. "South," she said in a queer breathless voice. "South, where it's warm. He's drawn to where it's warm… hiding. He's hiding… can't tell why. A woman… no, a girl…"
Japhrimel tensed next to me. I didn't think it was possible for him to get any tighter strung. He moved a little closer, I could feel the heat breathing off him, wrapping around me. If he got any closer he would be molded to my side.
"What about the Egg?" I breathed. Abra's eyes were wide and white, irises a thin ring around her dilated pupils, splotches of hectic color high up on her now-pale cheeks.
"Broken… dead… ash, ash on the wind…" Abra's hand jerked, smacking down on the counter. I jumped, and Japhrimel's fingers bit my shoulder. She didn't get these flashes often, but when she did, they were invariably right—though usually not precise enough to be of any real help.
I had an even more important question. "How do I kill the sonuvabitch, Abra? How do I kill Santino?"
Her eyelids fluttered. "Not by demon fire… neither man nor demon can kill him… water—" She took in a long gasping breath, her lips stretched back over strong white teeth. "Waves. Waves on the shore, ice, I see you, I see you, Dante… face-down, floating… you're floating… floating—"
I leaned over the counter, grabbed Abra's shoulders, and shook her. When that didn't work, I slapped her—not hard, just hard enough to shock her. Her eyes flew open, and Japhrimel yanked me back, hissing something low and sharp in what I guessed was his own language. Abra coughed, rackingly, grabbing on to the counter with white-knuckled fingers. She said something quiet and harsh that I didn't quite catch, then looked me full in the eyes. "This is going to kill you, Da
"As long as I take out the fucker that did Doreen I'll be okay," I grated out. "Information, Abra. Where the fuck is he?"
"Where else?" Abra snapped back, but her chin trembled slightly. She was paler than I'd ever seen her. "Nuevo Rio di Janeiro, Da
I scooped up the paper and shoved it in my bag. Abra stared at me, trembling, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip. It was the first time I'd even seen her even remotely close to scared.
She looked terrified.
"What about Dacon and the Chill?" I asked. "How the hell did—"
"Whitaker's hand-in-fist with the Owens Family, has been for years now. He got hooked last year and started skimming from their shipments," she replied shortly, reaching up to touch her cheek where the mark of my hand flushed red. "You hit me!"
"You were getting boring," I said before I thought about it. "Contacts in Nuevo Rio?"
"I don't have any," she said. "But as soon as you get there, you might want to look up Jace Monroe. He moved down there a while ago. Doing work for the Corvin Family. He's gone back to the Mob."
I hadn't known that. Then again, I'd never asked Abra about Monroe, even though he'd introduced me to her. I knew he'd been Mob, and suspected he'd gone back to the Mob—but hearing it out loud was something else entirely. I made a face. "I'd rather talk to a spasmoid weasel with a plasrifle," I muttered. "Okay. So what about gossip?"
Abra shrugged. "Word on the street is you're into something big, and there's a warning out there, too. Don't mess around with Da
"I thought that was common knowledge."
"You've got a demon for a lapdog, Da
I nodded, frustration curdling under my collarbones. "Thanks, Abra. I owe you one."
Her response was a bitter laugh. "You're not going to live long enough for me to collect. Now get the fuck out of my shop, and don't bring that thing back here." Her hand twitched toward the plasrifle leaning obediently on her side of the counter. Japhrimel pulled me away, dragging me across the groaning wooden floor, my bootheels scraping. The temperature in the shop had risen at least ten degrees.
He's not a thing, Abra. "I'll leave him at home to crochet next time," my mouth responded smartly with no direction from my brain. "Thanks, Abra."
"If she dies, s'darok," Jaf tossed back over his shoulder, "I will come hunting for you."
"Stop it. What's wrong with you?" I tried to extract my arm from his hand, with no luck. He didn't let go of me until we were outside the pawnshop and a good half block away. "What the hell—"
"She predicted your death, Dante," he said, grudgingly letting me slip my arm away from him. I felt bruises starting where his fingers had been. I dug my heels into the pavement and jerked my arm all the way free of his grasp, irritation rasping sharp under my breastbone.
"What the hell does it matter to you?" I snapped. "You're more trouble than you're worth! I could have gotten twice the information out of her if you hadn't gone all Chillfreak! You're fucking useless!"
A muscle in his cheek twitched. "I certainly hope not," he answered calmly enough. "You walk into a s'darok's den with no protection, you court death with no conception of the consequences, and you blame me for your own foolhardiness—"
"I blame you? You don't even make any sense! If you had just been a little less set on 'psychotic' we could have gotten twice as much information from her! But no, you had to play the demon, you had to act like you know everything! You're so arrogant, you never even—"
"We are wasting time," he overrode me. "I will not let you come to harm, Dante, despite all your protests. From this moment forth, I will not allow this foolishness."
"Allow? What's this 'allow'? What the bloody blue hell is wrong with you?" It wasn't until the streetlamp in front of us popped, its glass bulb shattering and dusting the pavement below with glittering sprinkles, that I realized I was far too upset.
I need to fucking well calm down, I thought. Too bad it looks like that's not going to happen soon.
He said nothing in reply, just staring at me with those laser-green eyes, his cheek twitching. The cold wind was begi
Necromances and Ceremonials both tended to affect a whispery tone after a while. We live by enforcing our Will on the world through words wedded to Power—and a Necromance shouting in anger could cause a great deal of damage. One of the dicta of Magi training ran: A Magi's word becomes truth. And for trained Necromances, who walked between this world and the next, discipline was all the more imperative.
I took a deep breath, tasting ozone, my shields flushing dark-blue with irritation, a
His jaw worked silently. If he keeps that up he might grind his teeth down to nubs, I thought, and had to bite back a nervous giggle.
I rubbed at my arm. It hurt, and so did my left shoulder. The burning, drilling pain reminded me of how quickly my life had grown incredibly-fucked-up. Even for me. "I wish I'd never seen you," I said tonelessly. "That hurt, you asshole." I was far too angry to care about calling a demon who could eat me for breakfast an asshole.
He reached out for my arm again, and I flinched. His hand stopped in midair, then dropped back to his side. He looked—for the first time—actually chagrined. Or as if he was hovering between chagrin and fury. I'd seen that look before, but only on Jace.