The Devil's Right Hand

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 running out of my legs. “Oh.” My voice was a wounded little whisper. I looked up at him. “Japhrimel—”

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, pinning a corsage on his date. “I do not think,” he said, his fingers lingering on my cheek, “that I understand you well enough. My apologies.”

My heart hurt. It was an actual, physical, piercing pain. “Japh… it’s okay. Really, it is. I… thank you.” Thank you. That’s the best I can come up with, two silly stupid little words. Goddammit, Danny, why can’t you ever say what you mean? I caught his hands, held on as he looked down at me. “I’m sorry I can’t be… nicer.” Nicer? I’m sorry I seem to be utterly incapable of anything but raving bitchiness. You’re better than I deserve. I love you.

“You are exactly as you should be, hedaira. I would not change you.” He squeezed my hands, gently, and let go, pacing across the room and picking up a familiar slender shape.

“I wouldn’t change you either.” The words burst out of me, and the moment of silent communication as his eyes met mine was worth anything I owned.

He presented me with my sword as properly as Jado might have, the hilt toward my hand and a slight respectful bow tilting him toward me. I accepted the slender weight and immediately felt like myself again. “It is the strangest thing, but your sword seemed unaffected by the fire.”

“Jado gave it to me.” Did he give me a blade that can kill a demon? I certainly hope so, I might need one soon. “Japh, the reaction fire. How did you—”

“My kind are creatures of fire,” he reminded me. “No flame can hurt me, even a flame humans unlock from atoms. Steel, wood, lead, fire—none of these things will harm me in the slightest.” He clasped his hands behind his back.

I wish I’d known. “Fine time to tell me.” A sharp guilt I hadn’t even been aware of eased. I finally felt like we understood each other. I didn’t like fighting him, I wasn’t any good at it.

“I have told you I will not bother you with trifles; I considered that a trifle.” He paused, thoughtfully. “I thought it would alarm you to speak of it. If it will ease your mind to know such a thing, I will tell you.”

If he had jumped up on the dresser and announced his intention to become a half-credit unregistered sexwitch trolling the sinks of Old Delhi, I would have been a little less surprised. “Good enough.” I popped my sword free, looked at four inches of bright metal. Japhrimel was right—the sword was unaffected. I could see no weakening in its blue glow, no unsteadiness that would warn me the steel had become reaction-brittle. I probed delicately at it with a finger of Power, encountered exactly the right amount of resistance.

“I wonder who you really are,” I said, not knowing if I was talking to my sword, my Fallen lover, or the demon we were chasing.

Or to myself.

The old Dante would have fought to escape from Japhrimel, would have tried over and over to push him away, would never have forgiven him one omission, one misleading statement. Would never have listened to his explanation, never mind that it was a good one. Dante Valentine, the best friend in the world—as long as you don’t betray her. I had cut people completely out of my life for less.

Then again, I had forgiven Jace. Any lie he told me, every omission he made, had eventually not mattered when weighed against his determination to protect me. Or against the debt I owed him for his quiet, stubborn, careful love of a grief-crazed part-demon Necromance—and his love for the damaged, brittle woman I’d been. I had forgiven him, even though I’d sworn I never would.

Was I getting soft? Or just growing up?

And the strangest thing of all: if it hadn’t been for Japhrimel, I wouldn’t have learned to forgive anyone, least of all myself. A demon, teaching me about forgiveness. How was that for bizarre?

Japhrimel’s soft voice interrupted that chain of thought. “I am your Fallen. That is all you need remember. Are you ready?”

“To try and figure out who’s been trying to hit me with a hover? More than ready.” At least I sounded like myself again, there was no betraying tremble in my voice. All in all, I was dealing with this really well.

Wasn’t I?

“Dante… ” He let my name hang in the air as if he wanted to say more. I waited, but nothing came. Instead, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes glowing and his hair softly mussed. His coat moved slightly, settling around him, and I saw his face change. Just a little.

“What?” I bounced up off the bed and jammed my sword home. “I’m ready.”

He shook his head, then turned to lead me from the room. “Hey,” I said. “Thank you. Really. For saving the necklace. And my sword.” But most particularly, for saving me.

Did his shoulders stiffen as if I’d hit him? He nodded, his hair moving ink-black above the darkness of his coat, and continued out of the room.

I didn’t have time to wonder about that, just followed him.