American Goth (39 page)

Graham and Elizabeth stared at me as Cort nodded agreement. “And what will you do?”

The path was so very clear before me, I couldn’t help but smile. It shone with a chill clarity, the clean, sharp whisper of a razor, the bright reflection of burnished steel, and the perfect, pointed cool logic of numbers as the ice ran through me, filled me, became the oh-so-welcome cold burn that made me want to dare the black wave to come and claim me—
if
it could. “I’m going to find Old Ralph Jones—it’s time we chatted.”

I let myself out and into the shop, took my weapon of choice, then got on my Vespa. I had a date with the devil and I knew how to dance.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil:

for I am the toughest motherfucker in the valley.

—Americanized Psalm 23

He was just outside the door of Spit, lounging against the brick. “Out for a spin?” he asked, nodding his chin toward me.

“
Je vous cherche
,” I seek you, I mocked as I walked toward him.

“
Vous êtes seul
,” he said in the dry voice that sounded like nettles blowing in the wind.

“Yes,” I agreed, “I’m alone.”

“But you’re armed—I can sense it from here.”

“I don’t need a weapon for you,” I said as I walked toward him.

He straightened from his perch and smoothed out his coat, a black that hung to his ankles. “Like the new threads?” he smirked as he ran his hands along his chest, then brushed at imaginary lint. “Ah, cashmere—not like the rough wool of a peacoat.” His smirk grew wider.

But the tables had been turned since we’d last met, and it was time he knew it. This time I moved faster than he expected and pinned him to the wall. “Do you like breathing?” I asked him as I stared into glittering black eyes. His shoulder was surprisingly bony under my hand, and even on this level, his skin still carried a grayish waxy tint.

He cocked his head and gazed at me from under half-closed lashes. “You can’t kill me—I’m part of the order of things, the way of the worlds, the Ex—arp!” he breathed harshly as my hand closed around his throat. That. Felt. Good.

“The Circle, you’ve betrayed them.” The words were jagged as they ripped from my throat. “They allow your maggot existence, and you’ve sold them out. You’ve told someone who, where, Lyddie is, you’ve set them after Fran. Who else have you given up? Who did you tell?” I released him and he fell back hard against the brick, his breath harsh little puffs of steam in the air between us.

“You’re smarter than the others,” he said, attempting to recover his grin as he rubbed his throat. “A bit rougher too. I like that.”

“I don’t have to kill you, you know,” I told him casually. “I know how the sword works—I just have to…let in a little light. I can do
that
on the Astral. Besides,” I added, “it might…hurt…in other ways. You might grow a conscience.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a friendly little cash exchange,” he said, the menace he’d had weeks before and the mockery from just moments ago all gone. “And they get what they ask for—no more, no less.”

I let my hand drift to my side, and he swallowed as he watched where it landed. “So who asked you?”

“Uh-uh, it doesn’t work that way,” he shook his head as he took a step back and regained some of his earlier composure. “You offer me something, or I offer you something—that’s the way it goes, the balance kept. I
do
like this coat. I should probably get new shoes to go with it.”

I pretended to consider for about half a second. “Here’s my offer. I don’t rip you down to the nothing you deserve to dissolve into, your energy not even a memory trace on any level, and you tell me what I need to know.”

He moistened thin lips with the tip of his tongue. “I could help you—tell you who the Dark Master is that’s so close to you, so close and you’re so blind, and then you’ll owe me twice—I’ve already done you a favor.”

I knew by now how Ralph worked—he never offered anything that wouldn’t happen of its own accord, in its own time. He told the truth, but it was a truth to be examined from every angle—his deceptions were based on that.

“I owe
you
nothing,” I said and wrapped my hand around the leather-wrapped hilt at my side. “Now you’re useless
and
you’re boring me—let’s end it, and I’ll figure it out from there.” I moved on him again as I half drew.

“Wait—don’t be so hasty—we can come to some sort of agreement!” he said, his voice a higher pitch as he held up his hands and backed away.

I advanced on him anyway until he was wedged in the corner of the outer vestibule. The brick wouldn’t help or protect him.

“They just wanted a name—the name of the person who held you grounded. You did know Francesca is named for her mother, didn’t you?” The words tumbled out, almost tripping over each other as he spoke. “Yeah,” he said, nodding, “easy to find—politicians are very public figures—and they found what they were looking for. I give the goods,
and
I did you a solid—they didn’t find
her
, right?”

My breath steamed out between us in little clouds as the full import of what he said sank in and I relaxed my grip. Holy shit. My instincts—my
seeing
—had been good, but not good enough—and Fran was even now on her way to Milan. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Shame ’bout Lyddie, though. Got that on their own.” He gazed at the ground and shook his head with seeming regret. “Well, then again, she’s served the Light forever, probably time to—
rawk
!”

I again caught him by the throat. “I don’t want to hear your speculations. I want the name of whoever paid for that coat, the identity of the next target, and anything else you can tell me.” I shook him before I let him go, and he rested back against the wall, again rubbing his neck, resentment in the squint he gave me.

I pinned his eyes with mine. “I don’t want your version of the truth—I want exacts. Fuck with me,” I told him very precisely, “and I
won’t
kill you.”

“You won’t?” he asked, obviously surprised.

“No.” I shook my head and smiled with the same emotion I’d left the shop with thrilling through me—cold flame. “I will hunt you on every level and I
will
find you. I promise, I will break, and I will take you—piece by piece—and you won’t know when I’m coming to claim them—Rafael.”

It was a hunch, to call him by his true name. Names had power, and since his was never used, I wondered if it held power over him, power that might compel him.

“I
hate
that name,” he muttered as he scratched the back of his neck. “You drive a hard bargain, but I accept your terms. Just keep that pointy thing away from me,” he said, jamming a thumb toward what we both knew hung from my side. “Pure Light—ugh!” He shuddered dramatically. “Like drinking warm milk.”

“Names, Rafael. Give me the names and the information I asked for.”

He straightened once more, and energy flowed from him, an electric haze that popped with the real power he commanded. His voice changed, took on an echoing resonance. “Elizabeth. Elizabeth is the next target—and as above, so below. Don’t assume the threat is purely Material,” he warned.

I nodded as I accepted that—I’d have to get back before everyone left London. “Who contacted you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

He shook his head. “You’ve called me by name, I must tell you. But this was only a hound, probably several steps below the adept who commanded her. But I know what you seek,” he said softly. “Find that adept—and find Judas.”

I was young, I was still very new to the role I’d inherited, and the shocks had come thick and fast this night. But that one punched through my ice, and I couldn’t completely hide my surprise. “That’s a legend!”

“It is now,” he agreed and shuddered, whether with memory or the very cold of the night I couldn’t tell, “but your father knew differently.”

I left Old Jones shivering in the dark while I took off and raced to London Hospital, questions and answers burning in my head as I rode down silent streets.

I understood now what my father had meant about possibilities and probabilities. Possibilities were infinite, probabilities were not—they were shaped by the circumstances that surrounded them, leading always,
always
to one and only one answer—and I was my father’s daughter: I was Wielder.

The scratches on my arm and the burn scar above them throbbed as I rode, the reminder of my first failure to live up to my charge. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t known my role at the time—I had known the circumstances and had done nothing to change them. That would
never
happen again, I vowed as I neared the hospital.

I parked safely, then cut the engine and as I strode to the entrance I knew who I was and what I had to do—it was my
sworn
duty: to change the circumstances, to ensure the answer was right, for all time.

JD Glass lives in the city of her choice and birth, New York, with her beloved partner. When she’s not writing, she’s the lead singer (as well as alternately guitarist and bassist) in Life Underwater, which also keeps her pretty busy.

JD spent three years writing the semimonthly
Vintage News,
a journal about all sorts of neat collectible guitars, basses, and other fretted string instruments, and also wrote and illustrated
Water, Water Everywhere,
an illustrated text and guide about water in the human body, for the famous Children’s Museum Water Exhibit. When not creating something (she swears she’s way too busy to ever be bored), she sleeps. Right.

Works in progress include
X.

Further information can be found at www.boldstrokesbooks.com and at www.myspace.com/jdglass, where you can check out the daily music plays, blogs, reviews of all sorts of fun things, and the occasional flash of wit.