Shadowland Page 4

  For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of slow, heavy pants and the incongruous tap, tap, tap of claws on cement as the creature prowled up and down the sidewalk, looking for the tasty tidbit it had glimpsed from above. John stayed utterly still, not even breathing. It wasn’t likely to help.

  Vetalas were rare in the city, preferring the wild hinterlands beyond. But when they did come in, no one challenged them. They were frighteningly fast, immensely strong, and cunningly smart. And they could hone in on human magic as easily as scent. Throwing a silence shield or a cloaking spell over himself would only help it find him faster.

  But not being able to move was driving him crazy. His hand itched to tense, to grab a weapon, to fight. But vetalas hunted in packs, and the others wouldn’t be far away. And meeting a group of flesh-eating predators in his current condition would make this a very short trip.

  Finally, through the cobweb strewn packing crates at the entrance to the alley, he glimpsed it—a fantastic beast, sleek as a viper and built for raw power. Like a nightmarish cross of hyena and bat, it was a mass of contradictions—silky russet fur that melted into leathery black wings, a delicate, fine-boned head that ended in a razored snarl. Grace seamlessly combined with terror, it was the perfect instrument of death.

  And it was wagging its tail.

  John slumped against the cold bricks behind him, faintly dizzy from relief and lack of oxygen. He decided that perhaps God didn’t hate him as much as he’d always believed. Because of the thousands of the creatures who ravaged this strange world, he’d stumbled across the only one he knew.

  Or perhaps it had stumbled over him, because before he could emerge from the alley, it bounded over the crates, knocked him to the ground and deposited a ton of enthusiastic slobber onto his face.

  “Beren—Beren get off,” he growled, which did no more good than it ever had.

  Glossy fur gleamed over hard muscle as a monster the size of a large car slumped in a playful crouch. It thought he wanted to wrestle, which was more than a little dangerous in the confined space. The vetala’s heavy barbed tail had gotten caught in one of the packing crates, a problem Beren solved by thrashing it back and forth against the two sides of the alley. Nails and shards of wood went flying everywhere—including into John’s flesh.

  It occurred to him that it would be exactly like him to get killed in a city full of enemies by a friend.

  In desperation, he made one of the sounds he’d perfected as a young man, a pretty good approximation of the cry young vetalas used to let their nest mates know when they’d bitten too hard. He’d hardly begun the haunting mewl of distress before Beren was pulling back in an undignified waddle, until only its head was in the alley. It snuffled around his hurt leg, its muzzle careful not to nudge the wound, its body language apologetic.

  “It’s all right,” John said, sitting up. “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  The great head pushed its way under his arm, pretty much forcing him to scratch it behind the ears. He obliged, and found the rumble of its breath and the impression of barely contained violence familiar and soothing. He’d never been able to own a dog. After Beren, they seemed so cringing, so subservient. They were carrion eaters and beggars of scraps; Beren was a proud member of an ancient race of hunters, and he preferred his food alive.

  Fortunately, he’d never viewed John as food. Why was still open to question. Beren hadn’t been an abandoned waif he rescued or a starving outcast. He’d been pretty much as he was now when they’d met, after Rosier had moved John to his secondary court in the demon realm humans called the Shadowland.

  It had been the second upheaval for him, who had been snatched from life on earth to Rosier’s main court only a few years before. That had proved to be a hot, brightly lit desert world, full of spice and color and debauchery--and intrigue and danger and hatred for the half-human child who was suddenly the focus of his father’s interest. After the fifth failed assassination attempt, Rosier had moved him here.

  John hadn’t found it much of an improvement, other than for the fact that he saw his father considerably less. He’d taken to exploring the outer city, mainly to avoid the court. It was no less deadly, but at least out here, he’d known who his enemies were. Until he’d met Beren, and unexpectedly found a friend.

  “What have you been doing?” he asked, and received in return a joyful tumble of images, straight into his brain: of hunting little scurrying things, of russet-coated babies all in a knot, of soaring high above the claustrophobic lid of clouds, into the star strewn sky.

  Beren’s head tilted to the side, obviously returning the question, and John felt a gentle probe against his mind. He rejected it fiercely, feeling suddenly, strangely vulnerable in a way that made him want to lash out at the world, to rip something apart with his bare hands, to do anything to stop the images that iced his veins. Beren gave a bleat of distress and John abruptly shut down his thoughts.

  “I’m not good company today,” he said briefly, and pulled a few shards out of his skin so he could examine his leg.

  It hurt like a bitch after his mad scramble for cover, but there didn’t seem to be any additional damage. Unfortunately, there also wasn’t any noticeable improvement. Pretty much the only good thing about his heritage was an ability to close most wounds within moments. But that wasn’t happening here.

  He tried a healing spell, but other than for a faint lessening of heat radiating from the wound, nothing happened. He swore. He must have had an ember of brimstone caught in it during the blast. His body would compensate—probably--but it meant he would be stuck limping about on the thing until he could visit a healer and get it dug out.

  He looked up at Beren. “My luck isn’t improving.”

  Beren didn’t say anything. It was one of the things John liked best about him.

  John got to his feet, testing his leg for strength. It held, but ached every time he put any weight on it. Just standing was painful; walking any distance was likely to be excruciating, and he had a long walk ahead.

  For security reasons, transitioning into the heart of the city was forbidden. Of course, considering that John was already under a death threat, that wouldn’t have worried him overmuch--if the caretakers hadn’t backed the law up with a very nasty spell. As a result, he’d had to enter the Shadowland on the very outskirts of the city, nowhere near the areas his prey was likely to be.

  John glanced at Beren, who was watching him expectantly, the great tail whisking slowly back and forth on the street. Its head tilted, as if wondering what he was waiting for. John decided it had a point.

  “Feel like giving me a lift?”

  The joyful cry of assent shook nearby buildings and echoed for blocks.

  John gingerly climbed onto the broad back, his feet automatically hooking under the huge wings, his hands finding purchase in that luxurious fur. He was barely in place when Beren was off, bounding in quicksilver leaps down the street, before surging with terrible grace into an arcing spring. And then, with an enormous whoosh, they were airborne, fast enough to have John’s eyes watering from the speed.

  In minutes, the glittering city center spread out below him, an irregular, starfish-shaped sprawl of light in the gloom. It was bigger than he recalled. Either his memory was faulty, or the Market had engulfed even more blocks since he’d been here. That wasn’t surprising, as it was the main reason the Shadowland existed.

  A minor demon realm with no riches, no natural resources, and a damn depressing atmosphere, it had never been deemed worth anyone’s time to conquer. For millennia it had remained a stretch of twilit, rocky nothingness, populated only by the vetalas and the small mammals that were their natural prey. Until someone, ages past, had seen opportunity in its poverty.

  Suspicion and distrust had long stymied trade among the demon worlds, with most demons barred from each other’s realms except for the occasional heavily guarded ambassadorial delegation. Those traders who did attempt to move about were often regarded as
spies and treated accordingly. From a merchant’s perspective, the whole situation was, well, hellish.

  Then somebody stumbled across the Shadowland. No one recalled who the commercial genius was anymore, although almost every major court claimed to have produced him. John doubted that, as none of them would have let a gold mine like this slip through their greedy hands, and they didn’t control it. More likely, it was one of the guild of traders who still ran the place who had had the epiphany: an area not worth attacking might be perfect as a much needed meeting place.

  It was an immediate hit, not least because of the way it had been set up. Unique amongst a species known for bureaucratizing everything, the Shadowland had few rules and restrictions. As long as everyone paid the guild’s taxes and didn’t cheat their customers badly enough to prompt retaliation, they were free to barter, gamble and whore together to their heart’s content.

  That last was the reason John was here.

  Rian had been trying to spare her master, but she’d known as well as he did—Rosier wouldn’t go near either of his courts so dangerously drained. Too many of his higher ranked creatures were just waiting for an opportunity to dispose of him, and to elevate themselves in the process. No, he’d replace the strength he’d lost first. And for an incubus, that only meant one thing.

  John patted Beren’s gleaming left flank and it banked and turned toward the Market’s most notorious district.

  Chapter Six

  Cassie woke up screaming bloody murder. It felt pretty good, so she did it some more. She’d had nightmares before, but God damn—

  Somebody grabbed her and she looked up into Marco’s concerned eyes. “What is it?” He gave her a little shake. “What’s wrong?”

  She blinked and looked around, breathing hard, but saw only a ring of tense vampires.

  A couple had dropped hands onto their weapons, and were darting glances around the room. Others had their eyes fixed on her, as if waiting for something to sprout out of her chest like in Alien.

  She wasn’t sure that would be any weirder than waking up in a body already in progress.

  Instead of finding herself lying in a dark room, enjoying a lazy Sunday morning—the only day of the week Pritkin didn’t roust her out of bed to go jogging in a heat wave--she was sitting up in bed. Early sunshine was leaking in around the curtains the vampires insisted on. A bunch of gifts were piled on the table by the window and more were on a cart near the bed. One of which had fallen off the tottering pile and landed near her feet.

  She gave a little shriek and reflexively kicked it at the wall, then screamed again and ducked under the covers as everything came pouring back.

  “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong right now, I’m calling a healer,” Marco told her, lifting up the edge of the sheet.

  Cassie just stared at him, wishing she knew. She’d had visions, plenty of them, and okay, that had been one hell of a lot worse than most, but she could deal. If it had been a vision. Only it hadn’t felt like one. It had felt like her flesh was being stripped from her bones, which were being blown apart and simultaneously seared into charcoal, before everything went very, very dark. Not dark as in night but dark as in dead, and no one knew dead like she knew dead and that, friends and neighbors, had very definitely been—

  “Are. You. All. Right?” Marco demanded, enunciating like he thought her problem might have to do with her hearing.

  “Do I look all right?” she snarled, as Casanova ran into the room.

  One look at his expression was enough to convince her, if she’d needed any help, that a vision was not what had just happened here. “Allu!” he yelled, sounding winded, which was ridiculous since he didn’t breathe. But Casanova wasn’t looking his usual suave self at the moment.

  “Hello,” one of the other vamps said, causing Casanova to turn on the unfortunate man with a screech.

  “Allu! Not hello, you incompetent—”

  The sound of gunshots from outside drowned out whatever else he might have said, and caused several of the vampires to draw their weapons and run out the door. Only to get blown back into the room in pieces as several large somethings rushed inside too fast for the eyes to track.

  Oh, shit, Cassie thought blankly. “Not ag—

  * * *

  Cassie woke up with a scream lodged in her throat that she mostly swallowed back down. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t really want to open them, because if she did, there might be a ring of vampires staring at her like she was crazy. But it got a little tiresome, sitting there looking at her inner eyelids, so eventually she did crack one lid halfway.

  There was a ring of vampires staring at her like she was crazy.

  “Is there a problem?” Marco asked, after a minute.

  Well, clearly.

  Cassie swallowed and opened both eyes, because she probably looked a little strange peering around with only one. And no one appeared to be trying to kill her just at the moment. She licked her lips. “What’s an Allu?” she asked. “Just for information.”

  “Allu?” Marco asked, giving it a slightly different pronunciation.

  “Close enough.”

  He tensed. “I think they’re a type of demon, why?”

  “Because there may be a slight chance that—”

  Casanova ran into the room, looking freaked. “Allu!” he shrieked.

  That time, five guards made it out the door, not that it made any noticeable difference. Cassie tried to shift, but absolutely nothing happened. Of course, she thought, as a dark wind blew inside. That would be far too—

  * * *

  Cassie woke up fairly calmly. She opened her eyes to see Marco standing by the door, talking to one of the other vamps, and the rest lounging around in deceptively casual stances. That could change in an instant into high alert status, but that didn’t seem to be helping much lately. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said to no one in particular, threw back the covers and ran like all hell was after her—which apparently, it was.

  Marco grabbed her before she made it out the front door. “The bathroom is back that way, princess.”

  “I don’t like that one.”

  “You have three.”

  “I don’t like any of them.”

  Marco sighed. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked calmly.

  “Sure thing. As soon as I figure it out.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you get weirder every day.”

  “It’s the days that are getting weirder,” she snapped, as Casanova came bolting in the door. “Allu?” she asked.

  “Allu.”

  “Fuck.”

  Cassie tore away from Marco and sprinted across the entry to the fire stairs. “That won’t work,” Casanova breathed, right at her back. “They’re coming up that way.”

  “Then where?”

  “Would somebody tell me what the hell is going on?” Marco asked, as she and Casanova came running past him, back toward the suite.

  “I can’t get killed again,” she told Casanova confidentially. “It’s starting to give me a complex.”

  “Tell me about it,” he snarled, pulling her into the elevator and then out the floor below and shoving his pass key into a random room. Marco had gone down the stairs, and was waiting on them, but Casanova slammed the door in his face.

  Normally, that wouldn’t have worked for longer than it took Marco to put his number thirteen boot through the foam core. But Casanova had barely had time to clap a hand over her mouth when the sounds of running feet were heard outside. They were followed by a shout and a squelching grunt and a body falling heavily against the floor.

  Cassie swallowed hard, but didn’t scream. She was all screamed out. What she wanted was some answers.

  She indicated this by pushing an elbow into Casanova’s ribs until he let go. “What is your problem?” he hissed.

  Cassie stared. “What is my problem?” she whispered savagely. “Really, Casanova? Really?”

  “All r
ight,” he straightened his tie, and brushed down a few wrinkles that had dared to show up in his nice off-white suit. “All right,” he said again, which Cassie didn’t find all that helpful.

  “What is going on?” she demanded.

  Casanova licked his lips. “I was actually hoping you’d know.”

  “Well, I don’t! I just keep waking up and somebody kills me, over and over. Who the hell are these Allu?”

  “Demons.” Casanova swallowed. “They’re the elite guard of the demon high council, to be precise. Faceless and merciless, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I didn’t notice the faceless part. I never got a chance.”

  “Obviously, the council has decided it wants you dead.”

  “You think?”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  “No? People always say that, but you know what? If ever there was a need, I think this qualifies. I think this qualifies like gang busters.” Cassie sat down on the sofa in their borrowed suite and hugged herself. “How long until they find us?”

  “Not long, if their reputation is anything to go on. The council only sends them out on important missions.”

  “I feel so special.”

  “What I want to know is what you did,” he said accusingly. He must be recovering, Cassie decided. That sounded more like the guy she knew.

  She was feeling slightly better herself. A little shaky from the adrenaline but, overall, not too bad for someone who’d been a corpse three times today. She decided it was Casanova. He wasn’t that great of a fighter, but then, she hadn’t noticed anybody else doing any better. And at least he didn’t act like she’d lost her mind along with her head.

  “The only demon I’ve pissed off is Rosier,” she told him. “At least that I know of. But Pritkin said he wasn’t going to be a problem anymore, and I haven’t so much as heard a peep from him since—”

  “No!” Casanova slashed a hand through the air. “What you did. Why aren’t we dead?”