A Taint in the Blood

Table of Contents

 

 

ISLAND IN THE SEA OF TIME

AGAINST THE TIDE OF YEARS

ON THE OCEANS OF ETERNITY

 

 

DIES THE FIRE

THE PROTECTOR’S WAR

A MEETING AT CORVALLIS

 

 

THE SUNRISE LANDS

THE SCOURGE OF GOD

THE SWORD OF THE LADY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE PESHAWAR LANCERS

CONQUISTADOR

ROC

Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, May 2010

Copyright © S. M. Stirling, 2010 All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Stirling, S. M.

A taint in the blood: a novel of the Shadowspawn/S. M. Stirling. p. cm. “A ROC book.”

eISBN : 978-1-101-18761-6

813’.54—dc22 2009049588

 

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Thanks to Richard Foss, for help with the fine details of food, wine and restaurants.

To Kier Salmon, for
all sorts
of help! Including the name of “Rancho Sangre Sagrado,” and other bits of idiomatic conversational Spanish, and useful discussions.

To Marino Panzanelli and Marco Pertoni for help with Italian, and also the other members of the Stirling listserve.

To Melinda Snodgrass, Daniel Abraham, Sage Walker, Emily Mah, Terry England, George R. R. Martin, Walter Jon Williams, Vic Milan, Jan Stirling and Ian Tregellis of Critical Mass, for constant help and advice as the book was under construction.

To Jack Williamson, Fred Pohl, Sprague de Camp and other Golden Agers for inspiration; and Roger Zelazny and Fred Saberhagen.

E
llen Tarnowski pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine; utter silence fell, save for the pinging sounds of hot metal contracting. With the car stopped, she could rest her forehead on the wheel and let the tears flow.

“I love him. I loved him. And he never let me in, he never told me the truth. Oh, shit, shit,
shit
!”

When she raised her eyes again the glow of the headlights broke in rainbows for a moment from the drops on her lashes.

“And I hope the flying gravel
ruined
his stupid Ferrari!”

The thought made her hiccup laughter and then choke on another sob. Then she rubbed a hand across her eyes and started at the sight of a human figure standing at the edge of the pool of light. Her foot hesitated over the gas pedal and her hand was on the shift when the half-seen shape walked towards the car—towards the passenger side. She turned her head to follow, and her left elbow slipped down on the lock and window controls.

The high-desert chill poured into the slightly steamy warmth of the car and the overhead light came on. Ellen felt a cleansing surge of anger as an infinitely familiar countenance stooped to look in at her.

“If you think you can talk me around again, you fucking—”

That’s not Adrian
, she realized an instant later.
It’s not even a
man
. Get a grip, girl! Start separating and stop obsessing!

But the resemblance was eerie. The same oval sharp-chinned face on a long skull, lobeless ears, the same wide forehead, the same yellow-flecked brown eyes and smooth olive complexion. The hair was raven-black and silky too, but far longer than Adrian’s ear-length. And she was in her mid-twenties, like Adrian, like Ellen herself. Embarrassment gave her a little strength; she knew her face must be streaming tears.

“Excuse me,” she managed, after clearing her throat and swallowing. “I thought you were someone else.”

She couldn’t see another car and this was a long way from anywhere, unless you were a coyote. The city-glow of Santa Fe was barely visible eastward through the high-desert night, the blaze of stars almost undimmed.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, you are,” the other said.

“What?” Ellen said, wiping at her tears with a wad of Kleenex.

“My, my,” the woman went on, in a voice like warm velvet stretched over the edge of a knife. “How could Adrian bear to give up such sensitivity? Your emotions have a bouquet like steak tartare with a little chopped wild onion and a touch of horseradish. Marvelous!”

The words were English—with a slight trace of an accent and foreign diction; French-but-not-quite, she thought, like Adrian’s except stronger. But they made no sense. Ellen felt as if she’d run down stairs and expected one more at the bottom that wasn’t there. The stranger leaned forward through the window, with both her elbows on the upper edge of the door.

She’s got the same sort of hands, too,
Ellen realized suddenly.
Long fingers but the first three all the same length. Pianist’s hands. Strangler’s hands.

Her teeth were white and even and a little disquieting as she smiled cheerfully.

“You’re subject to muscle cramps, aren’t you? Especially when you’re under stress. High probability, at this point.”

“I think you’d better go—”

The sick pain gave just enough warning for Ellen to grab at her neck and bend away from it to relax the knot. It felt as if the muscle were about to tear loose from the base of her skull and her shoulder at the same time. A breathy gasp escaped her. She could see the stranger open the door and slide into the other seat through a blurred gaze. Then her knee jerked up as another cramp knotted into the sole of her foot. But that was impossible; they
never
came more than one at a time.

The third hit in her thigh, just above the back of her knee. Her diaphragm locked on a retch and her eyes rolled up in her head as her hands locked and the fingers curled in spastic quivers. There was nothing in all the world but her flesh trying to writhe off her bones like snakes.

She never lost consciousness, not quite, but everything blurred away. When she came fully back to herself she was hunched across the wheel making small snuffling sounds. The humiliation of feeling strings of drool dangling from her lips made her wipe frantically with the Kleenex; there was nothing she could do about losing control of her bladder except get home. It had never been that bad before, or not since she was a child.

Even without the agony that had left her trembling and weak she wouldn’t have been able to resist the hands that gripped her right arm at wrist and just below the shoulder, turned and locked it. The stranger’s face bent towards the inside of her elbow, hidden by the fall of black hair, but dull curiosity was all she could feel. There was a sudden icy pain in the thin skin there, a mere flicker compared to what the cramps had done but
sharper
somehow.

The fog lifted from her mind, but the weakness remained; that gradually gave way to a glassy, almost pleasant calm where she didn’t
want
to move. She slumped against the door, unable even to look away.

Someone is drinking my blood,
she thought. Some remote objective part of her decided:
This is
gross
.

“Marvelous,” the other said when she sank back, licking her lips.

Her face was glowing with delight, as if lit from within. She touched a finger to the small wound, and it clotted with unnatural speed.

“Properly prepared, the right emotions give these
layers
of taste. I don’t care what our biochemists say, it’s not just pheromones and serotonins and analogues to MDMA. There’s a deeply spiritual aspect. Don’t you think so? Forgive me if I’m babbling, but to me that was like a really massive hit of snow. Or pure crystal meth.”