Dead Man Rising

Chapter Twenty

I came in the back way, dropping into my backyard with a whine and a rattle. My board needed servicing. The media vans sat squat and dark at my gate, bristling with fiberoptics and satellite dishes to catch footage if I ever came in through the front door. I toyed with the idea of giving a press conference. It wouldn't help anything, but it would put off what I had to do next.

I let myself in the back door. Jace looked up and yawned, pulling his T-shirt down and buttoning his jeans. His golden hair was mussed, sticking up in all directions, but at least he was clean. "Hey, baby. What did Eddie have to say?"

I shook my head. "Got any coffee? We're going to Polyamour's as soon as possible."

His mouth curled into a grin. "I didn't think you liked bought sex, sweets. And I didn't think a fempersonator was your type."

I made a face at him before I could help myself, sticking my tongue out. He laughed, blue eyes dancing, and I was surprised by the way my heart squeezed down on itself. "Turns out Eddie knows her. They were chums at school. And Poly might know something about this group of students that took Mirovitch down." I guess that wasn't a rumor after all. I wonder what else wasn't a rumor?

"Good." He poured me coffee, brought it over. I folded my hands around the cup, grateful for the warmth; both of the cup, and of his concern. "Do you think that's what happened?" Carefully-reined curiosity sparkled behind his eyes.

"It's as good a place as any to start, it's our first break. Eddie's nervous, says if the murderer started with a normal then he obviously isn't too picky about his prey." I stared down into the thick black liquid. I liked Jace's coffee. He was the only one who made it strong enough.

"I know that look." He leaned hipshot against the kitchen counter, cocking his head. Breathless morning darkness pressed against the kitchen window. "What are you thinking, Danny?"

What doesn't bother me about this? It's going too slow. I should have latched onto something before this. "Something about that normal bothers me. Why would he have a sealed trust? Why would he have shields? It doesn't make any sense."

He nodded, tapping his fingers against his swordhilt. Took a gulp of his coffee, made a face as if he'd burned himself. "Yeah, it's weird. And who is this Keller?"

I shrugged. "Maybe Polyamour can tell us."

"You want me to go with you?" He didn't sound surprised, but he did arch one eyebrow. He took another long draft from his coffee cup and grimaced. If it didn't hurt going down, it didn't feel like real coffee to him.

"Sure. I hear Poly likes pretty boys." I caught myself smiling, tilting my head slightly to the side and regarding him. "She might tell you more than she tells me."

"You're using me for my looks." He mock-pouted.

"I guess so. Does that bother you?" The smile felt natural, so natural the corners of my eyes crinkled.

"Naw." His grin answered mine, widened. "I kind of like it."

The footlocker lay silently in the middle of the living room, dusty with sterile earth. I took a deep breath, regarding it from the doorway the way a mongoose might stare at a particularly poisonous cobra. Jace, behind me, didn't ask what was in it.

I'd waited for false dawn, pearly gray light beginning to flower through the windows. The upswing of hovertraffic buzzed in the distance; Saint City's heartbeat quickened slightly, shaking off dreaming and getting ready for the day. I still waited, watching the gray metal as if it would sit up and accuse me. Jace was absolutely still at my shoulder, obviously curious, wanting to ask, not daring to.

Why was this so hard? I had grown past Rigger Hall. Hadn't I?

I was beginning to think I wasn't as far past it as I had hoped.

I glanced at the tapestry on the west wall. Isis's arms were crossed protectively, and Horus's ferocious Eye gazed serene and deadly. The gods were not actively involved… but their backs were not turned either. Whatever I did, they would witness.

That's not as comforting as it could be. I finally took a deep breath. Both my fieldstone altar and my main altar were humming with Power, and the house shields were thick and carefully laid. Nothing could harm me here. This was my home, my sanctuary.

Nothing in there can hurt me now. I swallowed dryly, heard my throat click. The locker's closed metal face taunted me. Yeah. Right.

My left shoulder burned steadily. It felt as if the ropy scar was pulsing, sliding against itself, straining. I took the first step into the room and approached the footlocker cautiously, placing each footfall carefully, as if I was on unsteady ground.

I sank down beside it on the hardwood floor, my knee on the thick, patterned rug I used for meditation. I had to remind myself to breathe. The padlock—I used a bit of Power, and it clicked open with a sound like a frozen corpse's jaws wrenching open.

My teeth chattered until I clenched them together. Strong, I told myself. I am strong. I survived this. I laid the padlock aside and opened the top slowly, hearing dirt caught in the unoiled hinges squeal like a scream.

"Valentine, D. Student Valentine is called to the Headmaster's office immediately."

The bright eyes of the kids in my class, all solemn and horrified and squeamishly glad their name hadn't been called. Woodenly reaching my feet, setting my battered Magickal Theory textbook aside; the teacher's—Embrose Roth, a Ceremonial and one of the worse at the Hall—ratty little face gleaming with curiosity, mousy hair pulled up in a tight bun, aura geometric and cold blue. Roth staring at my back as I trudged to the door, her attention like the filthy prick of a rat's claws against my nape.

Squeaking of my shoes against the stairs in the main hall, heading to the Headmaster's office; the collar far too heavy on my neck. Frantically trying to remember an excuse, any excuse, that would keep me from being beaten or worse.

At Rigger Hall it was likely to be worse.

My fingers trembled, my nails scraping against the metal as I pushed it all the way open.

"Chango, Danny," Jace breathed. "You're pale. You don't have to do this."

Yes, I do. I looked down.

There, laid on top, was the collar, a curve of dark metal.

Waves of shudders rippled down my back. My shoulder burned, a fierce pain I was glad of. It kept me anchored. I'd faced worse than this, hadn't I? I'd killed Santino. I'd faced down the Devil himself.

I didn't have anything to fear from the detritus of my past. I denied the trembling that rose up in me.

"That's a collar." I heard the fear under Jace's heartbeat.

Every psion hates the thought of collars. They're supposed to protect the normals from us, but the deadheads are not the ones who need protection. They are in the majority, no matter how many holovids have psions in their storylines. They make the rules, and those of us with Talent have to dance to their tune. Collars make them feel better, sure.

But there's only so much of being collared a human being can take.

"Shut up, Jace." My voice trembled, but it still sliced the air. The house shields went hard and crystalline, on the verge of locking down as if I was under attack.

I blew out a long breath, tried to make my shoulders a little less tense.

The arc of dull dark metal with circuit etching on one side was dead and quiescent. Without a power-pack and the school security net, it was useless. Still, I handled it as if it was live, flipping out a knife and using the bright blade to lift it, laying it aside. I still remembered the hideous jolts—with a collar live and locked on, a psi couldn't protect herself. It short-circuited most types of Power; the teachers had controls to change the settings in order for the students to practice. The principle behind collars was to keep a psion from harming anyone while she learned to control her gifts.

I suppose it was a good idea—but like all good ideas, someone had found a way to make it go horribly wrong. When a collar was live, a plasgun shock administered from a prod hurt like hell, burning through every nerve, as if you were being electrocuted. It didn't leave much in the way of permanent scarring—not on the outside, anyway.

Underneath was a pad of dirty green cloth, rough synthwool cut from an institutional bedspread in the long, low girl's dormitory. I flipped that aside, keeping one eye nervously on the collar.

My last school uniform. Plaid skirt, the white cotton blouse dingy with age, knee-socks, the heavy shoes I had always hated. The navy synthwool blazer with the crest of Rigger Hall worked in gold thread. I'd put the other five uniforms into an incinerator, but this one was the one I was wearing when the Hegemony had finished the inquiry and pronounced Mirovitch posthumously guilty. After the inquiry, we were free to wear normal clothes, and the Hall was visited by social workers every week. The psis were uncollared for visits with their social workers, and surprise inspections became the rule. The new Headmistress, Stabenow, had supervised the closing of the school after my class graduated. The younger students had scattered to other Hegemony schools, hopefully better-policed.

I lifted each item out reverently and laid it aside, still neatly folded. Jace was completely silent.

Tears welled up. I denied them, pushed them down. Invoked anger instead, a thin unsteady anger that at least did not choke me.

Under the uniform, books. Schoolbooks, mostly, each with their brown-paper cover decorated with glyphs done in pen, numbers, notes. And eleven slender books bound in maroon plasleather, with gold-foil lettering on the side.

Yearbooks.

I lifted them out carefully. Some junk jewelry and a threadbare teddy bear were wedged into the remaining space; the teddy's plastic eyes glinted at me.

Lewis had given me the teddy.

I survived, goddammit. I survived because I was strong enough to put this behind me, strong enough to go into Death itself. Don't start feeling sorry for yourself, Dante Valentine. Pull yourself together and do what has to be done, like you've done all your life. Do this. You will only have to do this once.

I decided I could look at this just once. Just this once. I was strong enough for that. I swallowed bile. My rings sparked and swirled uneasily. The mark on my shoulder crunched with pain. I inhaled, smelling dust and must and old things. Felt the phantom blood drip down my back again.

In the very bottom of the locker was the only thing I've ever stolen without being paid to do so. It was a long flexible whip, real leather, with a small metal fléchette at the tip. It was still crusted with rusting stains.

Bloodstains.

Jace exhaled sharply as I touched the whip with one finger. The shock jolted up my arm—pain, fear, sick excitement. I snatched my hand away.

"Roanna," I whispered. "She was sedayeen. She tried to tell her social worker what was happening at the Hall, but the bastard wouldn't believe a kid and had a nice little conference with the Headmaster." My voice was flat, barely stirring the air. "Mirovitch whipped her almost to death and then signed the papers to make her a breeder. She committed suicide—threw herself on the fencing with her collar turned all the way up."

"Danny…" He sounded like he'd been punched.

I ran the back of my hand over my cheek, bared my teeth as if I was facing a fight. I stacked the schoolbooks on top of the whip, pushed the teddy back in his place, then put the uniform and the sheet of green cloth back. I used a knifeblade to lift the collar up, laid it on top. Closed the top, wincing as the hinges squealed, and let out an unsteady barking breath that sounded like a sob. I flipped the padlock up and jammed it closed, the small click sounding very loud in the stillness. I resheathed my knife and slid my hands under the stack of eleven yearbooks. "Clear off the table in the dining room, will you?" I gained my feet and turned around, the negligible weight of the books in my arms seeming much heavier.

Jace's face was set and white, his mouth a thin line. His eyes burned. Fury boiled in the air around him, his aura hardspiked and crystalline. Despite that, his tone was dead-level. Calm. "They did that to you. Didn't they? I always wondered who made you so afraid."

Afraid? That puzzled me. It wasn't in me to be afraid, was it? I was supposed to fight. The classics Lewis had poured into me had taught me that much: the only way to kill your fears was to fight them. Be as frightened as you want, Lewis's voice whispered in my head. Then do what you have to do. That's what he's saying here, in this passage.

"I got whipped once. Put in the cage four times. B-branded. I was lucky it wasn't more." Lucky nothing happened that broke me. Nothing big. Nothing I couldn't handle, Jace.

"Lucky." His aura flushed with fury. "Danny—"

"Clear off a space on the table, Jace. The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can bury this again." And by the grace of Anubis, I can't wait to bury this again.

He stared at me for a few more moments, jaw working, then turned on his bootheel and stalked away soundlessly. I knew that set to his shoulders, the controlled angry grace. Jace was furious. I had only seen him in a rage twice, but both times had given me a healthy respect for his anger. I wondered if I was going to see it again, hoped not.

If he went nova I might draw steel on him, and I didn't quite trust myself with edged metal right now.

I carried the books into the dining room. He moved jerkily, clearing a space on the table. Other texts on demonology and basic Magi theory, drifts of paper where I'd made notes, and the talismans Jace had been working on—he stacked them all to the side, and I put the eleven yearbooks down. Blew out a heavy breath.

"Who are we looking for?" He set a four-book set of Tierley's Democria Demontia on one of the chairs with excessive delicate care. I picked up a piece of fine parchment, a twisted glyph that was Japhrimel's name branded into my shoulder repeated over and over again in different permutations. I hadn't even realized I was doodling it.

I cleared my throat, suddenly more grateful for his presence than ever. I had to force myself to speak quietly. "Well, after we visit Polyamour we'll have some more names. But I want to find out if Christabel's class had anyone named Keller. Can you get my bag and your dat-pilot? I want to see if there are any Ceremonials in town."

"Hm. Why Ceremonials? You're thinking they might have a connection to this?"

Ceremonial magicians weren't as rare as Necromances or as common as Shamans. They worked with the Nine Canons and the Seven Seals, charging and containing Power in objects, working with talismans, and providing permanent defenses for corporations, not to mention doing theoretical work and research into magick and the science of Power. Most teachers and trainers were Ceremonial magicians.

But there was a simpler reason why I wanted to find out who was in town. I met his worried blue eyes and gave him a smile that didn't feel natural at all. "I want to find out if any of them have gone Feeder."

Because, out of all psions, it was the Ceremonials—those who dealt with the theory of containing Power—who most often turned Feeder in adulthood. And if we had a Ceremonial on our hands who had gone Feeder and was hunting down former Rigger Hall students, the whole city's collection of psions would have to be alerted.

I would need all the help I could get.