Lilith Saintcrow - The Devil's Right Hand

“I will protect you, Dante.” His tone was low, a promise. “Never doubt that.”

Silence rose between us. Before, quiet had been something shared. Now it was dangerous.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I swallowed the next question: Do you mean it when you say you’re staying with me?

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d heard it anyway. I did some quick mental calculations. It had to be months that we’d lived here, quite how many I didn’t know. Time got away from me nowadays, especially when I was in the library.

However long it had been, I hadn’t doubted a single word that crossed his lips until now. “And how long has Lucifer been asking for me?” I added.

“Since I was resurrected, my curious. We have had more time than I ever thought possible. You needed it.” He stroked the curve of my hip, rounder now since I’d put on a little weight. Not much, but a little.

“You lied to me.” Flatly. I shouldn’t have been so upset. Even as I said it, I knew I shouldn’t have.

You forgave Jace, didn’t you? He lied to you about Santino too. My conscience, of course, piped up loud and clear. But Jace had stayed with me, putting up with my grief and my inability to stop moving, pushing his aging human body to its limits to keep up with me on bounties, watching my back. I had forgiven him. He’d earned it. Danny Valentine, the woman who swore that even one lie was a treasonous offense, had forgiven Jace everything, even if I couldn’t be what he wanted or needed.

But Japhrimel… was different. The thought of Jace lying to me had filled me with untinctured rage and contempt at the time; the thought of Japhrimel hiding something from me, no matter the reason… hurt. As if my heart had been replaced with a live coremelt. Tears rose behind my eyes, I pushed them down. Blinked furiously. Why does it hurt like this? What’s wrong with me?

He sighed, tracing the arch of my rib without tickling. I almost wished he would tickle me—that would end up in a wrestling match, and that would mean I wouldn’t have to think for a while. “What would you have done, had you known? You were a shadow. Whatever ghost I rescued you from crippled you. I feared you might die of despair, and if you locked yourself in the library at least you were not grieving.” His fingers were so gentle, he stroked my skin delicately, soothing. I had never been touched so carefully by a human lover; even Doreen’s comfort had lacked the deep softness of Japhrimel’s. Who would have thought a demon could be so gentle? “To know that Lucifer was asking for you was a burden you were not ready for.”

It wasn’t so much the chain of his logic as the infuriating tone of reasonableness and I-know-best he used that made me spitting mad. The fresh anger and irritation was like a tonic against the clawed pain in my chest, fear sparking fury as a defense.

All in all, I was taking the news rather well.

“I’ll decide what I’m ready for,” I snapped, rolling up and pushing his hand away. “You should have told me.” I gained my feet, scooping up my sword, and strode for the bathroom. If I was going to meet the Prince of Hell again, there were things I had to do first.

The mark on my shoulder warmed, a prickling of heat.

“What of your secrets?” His voice rose from the tangled bed behind me, a silky challenge. “What of the dead you bear such guilt for? You grieved for me while living with your human paramour, and I have never asked you to explain that .”

I actually stumbled. I hadn’t believed he would throw Jace at me, especially since it was salted with the pinch of truth. I took in a deep breath, my head down, tendrils of my hair slipping like living things over my shoulders. Then I lifted my head, regaining my balance. “At least Jace didn’t lie to me,” I flung back over my shoulder, and slammed into the bathroom before he could reply.

It wasn’t quite true. Jace never told me he was Mob, and part of the Corvin Family to boot. But I’d flung it at Japhrimel. Now who was the liar?

If I was going to visit the Devil, I wanted to be fully armed. So I opened up the huge dresser in the corner of the bedroom. Japhrimel was nowhere to be seen. I knelt on naked knees, my hair drying in a thick braided rope against my back. Pulled out the lowest drawer and saw with faint surprise everything was still there.

Well, why wouldn’t it be there? You put it there. You’re being ridiculous, Danny. Get moving.

Trade Bargains microfiber shirt, sheds dirt easily and doesn’t smell no matter how long you wear it, thanks to antibacterium impregnation. Butter-soft, broken-in jeans, cut to go over boots and treated to be water and stain resistant, patches tailored in to accommodate holsters and with the crotch inset so side-kicks are possible. The old explorer’s coat, too big for me because it was Jace’s—supple tough Kevlar panels inset in canvas, one pocket scorched where a silver spade necklace had turned red-hot and burned its way free. The rig, still oiled and spelled, not cracking like regular leather. Knives, main-gauches and stilettos, and the two projectile guns, cartridges neatly stacked off to the side. And in its deep velvet case, the necklace Jace had given me in the first days of our affair. I’d worn it all through the last job—tracking down Kellerman Lourdes. Even after I’d finished, that job had almost killed me.

I could admit as much now, if only to myself.

The necklace was beautiful. Silver-dipped raccoon baculums on a fine silver chain twined with black velvet ribbons and blood-marked bloodstones as well as every defense a Shaman knew how to weave, all twisted together in a fluid piece of art. He hadn’t given any other woman something like this—at least, not that I knew of. He had spent months making it, a powerful mark of his affection for me.

If I went into Death again, if I used the necklace he’d worked so hard on or the sword twisted with his death to call his apparition up, what would he have to say to me?

Maybe something like “I loved you, Danny, and I was human. Why couldn’t you love me ?” Maybe something like that. Or maybe “Why did you let me die?” Or “What took you so long to come find me?”

Any or all of those questions were equally likely, and equally viciously hurtful. Which one would I pick to answer, if I could?

“I’m not brave enough to find out,” I whispered, and picked up the necklace with delicate fingers. I fastened it, and spent a moment arranging it so the baculums hung down, each a curve of silver against my golden skin, knobbed ends pointing out. “Or am I?”

I felt as if a shell had been ripped away, as if my skin was hitting the air for the first time. I’d spent so long living on the edge of a sword, taking one bounty after another, jobs other Necromances wouldn’t touch, honing myself into a weapon to still the voices whispering in my head. Not good enough, not strong enough, not brave enough, not tough enough. Now, instead of feeling properly terrified, I felt a type of giddy glee. Soon I’d be facing down some new kind of danger, feeling as if my heart was going to explode from adrenaline. I had said that all I wanted was a quiet life, to be left alone.

I’d actually believed it when I’d said it, too.

Under the necklace were my rings, chiming as they tangled together. I lifted them one by one—amber rectangle, amber cabochon. Moonstone. Plain silver band. Bloodstone oval, obsidian oval. Suni-figured thumb ring on my left hand. They began to glow, sullenly at first, then brighter as my Power stroked at them. I sighed, feeling the defenses and spells caught in each stone rise to the surface, tremble, and settle back into humming readiness.