Страница 44 из 74
What would you have of me, my Lord? A thread of meaning slid through my words, laid in the receptive air of the hall like a glittering silver strand. I am Your child.
He cocked His slim head, warmth flowing through the not-air. A thin vibrating elastic stretched between us, my emerald sparking as my rings did, a shower of sparks. Each spark a jewel, each jewel a tear on the cheek of infinity.
The god spoke again.
The meanings of His word burned through me, each stripping away a layer. So many layers, so many different things to fight through, each opening like a flower to the god.
The geas burned at me, the fire of His touch and some other fire that moved through him combining. I had something to do—something the god would not show me yet.
Would I do what the god asked? When the time came, would I submit to His will and do what He asked of me?
I bowed, my palms together; a deep obeisance reaching into the very heart of me. My long stubborn life unreeled under His touch. How could I resist Him?
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 begi
“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. Ci
“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.
Chapter 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 ru
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, pi