[Anita Blake Collection] - Strange Candy (10 page)

Krakus let go of my hand and said, “I am sure I will not be the last demon you see, earth-witch; blood calls to blood.” He vanished.

Later that day we stood before the High Priestess, and she welcomed Celandine back into the fold of the white healers. The girl-child had some healing magic and was being sponsored as an apprentice healer. She was a worthy token for such a quest.

Celandine's father held a great feast, and I was invited. I had the gratitude of the most powerful petty king in Meltaan. And I had a diamond only slightly smaller than my fist. It would be a long time before I was forced to guard someone else's treasures again.

Celandine was in her element, bejeweled and dressed in white silk. She did not look my way. She was cleansed, and her soul was her own again. And I was a reminder of less pleasant times.

I watched the girl we had saved, laughing with the other young healers. I felt good at having saved her, but my eyes were drawn back again and again to the burn scar on my palm. Celandine had done nothing on this quest. Yet she was cleansed, and I was tainted. I wondered, was there a cleansing ceremony for the demon-touched?

C
APTAIN
Housework materialized on the doorstep of 11 Pear Tree Lane. His emergency beeper had awakened him, code red. Was it his nemesis, Dr. Grime, or the infamous Dust Bunny Gang, or perhaps Pond Scum, the destroyer of bathrooms?

He had to levitate to reach the doorbell. As crimefighters go, Captain Housework was on the short side. His white coveralls, silver cape, and mask—formed of a billed cap with eyeholes—were gleamingly clean. He stood on the top step shining as if carved from ivory and silver.

He looked perfect, crisp, and clean. And he liked it that way.

The door opened, and a woman dressed in a bathrobe stared down at him. “Oh, it's you. Please come in.” She held the door for him, waving him in eagerly.

He stared up at her, a grim smile on his face. “And what dastardly villain is plaguing your home, dear lady?”

She blinked at him. “Dastardly villain?” She gave a small laugh. “Oh, no, it's nothing like that. My husband made the call. Did he say we had a supervillain in the house?”

Captain Housework drew himself up to his full three feet and said, “It was a code red, madam. That means a supervillain has been spotted.”

The woman laughed again. “Oh, dear, no. I've got a party of twelve people coming at six o'clock and my maid canceled.”

“You called the superhero hotline because your maid canceled.” His voice had a harsh edge to it that the woman didn't seem to notice.

“Well, my friend Betty had you over when her kids threw that wild party. You did miracles with her house.”

“I remember the incident. I made it clear that it was an exception to the rules that I aided her.”

“But you've just got to help me, Captain Housework.” The woman went to her knees, gripping his arms. “Please, it's too late to turn to anyone else.” Tears glittered in her eyes.

Captain Housework crossed his arms across his thin chest, his mouth set in a firm line. “Madam, I am a superhero, not a maid. I do not think you realize how terrible my foes can be. Have you ever had a wave of black mildew engulf your husband and eat him to the bone before your eyes?”

She blinked at him. “Well, no, but surely that doesn't happen all that often. In the meantime, couldn't you help me, just this once?”

It was true that his archenemies had been lying low for a while. Work had been slow. He stared into her tearstained face and nodded. “All right, but only this once.”

She hugged him, crumpling the bill of his mask. He pushed away from her, straightening his costume. “That will not be necessary. I will get to work at once, if that is all right with you?”

“Oh, that's wonderful. I'll just go get dressed.” She raced up the stairs, trailing some floral perfume behind her.

Captain Housework sniffed. He preferred the cleaner scents of household air fresheners. Pine was his favorite.

He sighed and walked into the living room. For a moment his heart beat faster; surely such destruction could only be the work of the Dust
Bunny Gang. Sofa cushions were scattered across the floor. A vase had fallen on its side, spilling water.

Dying flowers made a sodden mess on the gray carpet. The fireplace was choked with ash and the partially burned carcass of a doll. Toys covered nearly every inch of the floor. Children. The only natural disaster that could rival Dr. Grime. Perhaps children weren't as deadly, but they were just as messy.

This was the fifth time in a month that he had been called in and found no archvillain but only bad housework. His name was being traded around like that of a good maid. He, Captain Housework, had been reduced to drudgery.

He, who had fought the great dust invasion of '53, would have no problem with this mundane mess. His superhuman speed would make short work of it all. But that wasn't the point. People did not call the Purple Avenger to change a tire. They called him to save their lives.

Once they had called Captain Housework for the same thing. Dr. Grime had nearly engulfed St. Louis in a giant rain of grease. All cars, trains, and planes had come to a slippery halt. Pedestrians caught in the first greasy rain had melted into puddles of sizzling goo. They had called for Captain Housework then, and been glad to have him. But that had been ten years ago.

Dr. Grime had retired. The Dust Bunny Gang had split up over contractual differences. There just weren't that many supervillains who specialized in true dirty work.

It wasn't really the mundane cleaning that bothered him. It was the repeat business. People had been calling him back; again and again to clean up after them. He'd get a house spotless, perfect, and they'd mess it up again.

It was a never-ending drudgery. Even with superpowers over dust and dirt, he was tired of it. They were taking advantage of him. But without any supervillains to fight, a superhero had to fill some need. It was in his contract that he had to be useful to mankind, just as a supervillain had
to harm mankind. If all the villains needing his special powers to thwart them had retired, he had to answer the call of need. Captain Housework sighed and waved a white-gloved hand. The sofa cushions danced back in place, fluffing themselves before snuggling down. “I am a glorified maid,” he said softly to the empty room.

The kitchen was the worst. Dishes were stacked nearly to the top of the windows, thick with grease and moldy food. He conjured a super-scouring wind and cleaned them with the force of a hurricane without cracking a dish.

When every room was spotless, he appeared before the woman who had summoned him. “The house is clean, madam.”

“Oh, gee, thanks.” She held out money.

Captain Housework stared at the offending hand. “I am a superhero, not a servant. I don't need your money.” His voice was very tight, each word bitten off.

“No offense. I'm grateful.”

“Be grateful and don't call me again.”

“But I want you to come back after the party and clean up,” she said.

“You what?”

“The maid can't come tonight at all. I thought you'd clean up after the party. The superhero hotline said you would.”

“They said I would?”

She nodded. “The operator on the hotline said you would be happy to be of service. She said something about superheroes needing to be of service to mankind.”

Captain Housework stared at the woman for a few heartbeats. He saw it all then, his future stretching out before him. An eternity of cleaning up after parties, repairing the damage of crayon-wielding tots and unhouse-broken dogs. He saw it all in the blink of his sparkling eyes. It was intolerable, a hell on earth, but the woman was right. A superhero had to serve mankind. If all he was good for was maid service, then so be it.

The woman had been putting on red nail polish. She reached back to tighten the lid, but was unwilling to grip it with her wet nails. The bottle went spinning. Bright red liquid poured out onto the white carpet, trickled down the newly polished vanity.

“Oops,” the woman said. “You'll get that, won't you? I've got to finish getting ready; the guests will be here any minute.” She stood, waving her nails to dry them. She left him staring at the spreading red stain on the carpet he had just shampooed.

His tiny hands balled into fists. He stood trembling with rage, unable to utter a word. An eternity of this—it was intolerable! But what else could he do? Talk Dr. Grime out of retirement? No, the villain had made millions off his memoirs.

Memoirs of the Down and Dirty
had been a bestseller. Captain Housework stared at the slowly hardening stain, and a great calmness washed over him. He had an idea.

The police found fourteen skeletons at 11 Pear Tree Lane. The bones were neatly arranged, sparkling with polish, lacquered to a perfect finish. The house had never been so clean.

M
ILON
Songsmith was dying. Brown hair clung to his face in limp, sweat-soaked strands. His skin was gray-tinged, like dirty snow. Breath was a ragged choking sound, his body trembling with the effort to draw air into his lungs.

Sidra Ironfist stood looking down at her friend. Her strong, callused hands gripped the hilts of her swords until her hands ached. Sidra's solid gray eyes stared down at her friend and willed him to live. She ran a hand through long yellow hair and turned to the wizard leaning against the wall.

Gannon the Sorcerer was tall, as tall as Sidra. His hair was yellow, his eyes the fresh blue of spring skies. But his face was set in cynical lines, as if he had seen too much of the world, and it all disappointed him. Today his eyes held anger and sorrow.

“I will not let him die like this,” Sidra said.

“It is a death curse, Sidra. You cannot stop it. The bard is a better friend to me than any man alive, and I am just as helpless,” Gannon said.

“Can nothing stop it?” Her eyes searched his face, demanded he give her some hope.

“It is the most powerful death curse I have ever seen. It would take days for another curse-maker to remove the spell. Milon has only hours.”

Sidra turned away from the sorcerer and his compassionate eyes. She would not let Milon die. He was her bard. They had ridden together for eight years. Even with a bard's safe conduct, accidents could happen. If you rode into battle, unarmed, you took your chances. But this—this was a coward's way of killing. By all laws, Milon should have been safe in the tavern. Harming a bard, save in self-defense, was punishable by death.

Someone had hated him enough to risk that. But who? And why?

Sidra Ironfist knelt by the bed. She reached out to touch Milon's forehead with one scarred finger. She could feel the heat before she touched his skin. The magical fever was eating him alive.

She whispered to him, though he could not hear her, “I will not let you die.” She turned to the sorcerer. “What of the curse-maker who placed the curse?”

Gannon frowned. “What of him?”

“Could he remove the curse?”

“Well, yes, but why would he?”

Sidra smiled, tight-lipped. “I think we could find ways to persuade him.”

Gannon nodded. “We might at that, but how to find him in such a short time?”

There was a knock on the door. Sidra pulled her long sword from its sheath and called, “Come in.”

A woman hesitated at the doorway. Her hair was streaked with gray, and she wore the robes of a white healer. “I was told you had an injured man.” She caught sight of the bard and stepped into the room past Sidra's bare steel. “That is not a wound.”

Sidra sheathed her sword. “Tell her, Gannon.”

He explained briefly. Outrage showed on the healer's face, then anger, a white burning anger that Sidra found comforting and frightening all at the same time. “By all the civilized laws, bards are sacred. A death curse
on one such as this is an insult to all we hold dear.” The healer asked, “Who has done this?”

“Unknown,” Gannon said, “but we will find out.”

Sidra said, “Yes, we will find out.” There was something—in her voice, in the steel gray of her eyes—that was frightening.

The healer stepped away from the tall warrior woman. “You look like calm death, warrior.”

“Can you keep him alive until we return?”

“I will keep him alive, but be swift. There will come a point from which no one can bring him back.”

Sidra nodded. “Keep him alive, healer. He's important to me.”

“That I knew when I saw your face, warrior.”

Sidra looked away from the healer's wise face. She was uncomfortable that anyone could read her so easily. “Come, Gannon.” She was through the door and on the stairs before Gannon had time to move. He jogged to catch up with her. “Where do we begin?”

“Malhari.”

Malhari was a big, beefy man. The muscle of his mercenary days had run to softness but not to fat. He was still a formidable man. His black hair was close cropped, framing a nearly perfect roundness of face. His right arm ended abruptly a span above the wrist. A metal-studded leather sheath hid his stump. It had given the tavern its name: The One-Armed Man. His dark eyes caught them as they came down the stairs; no words were needed. He called one of the bar-lads over to pour drinks and motioned them into his office—small, neat, and orderly, the way Malhari had run campaigns years ago.

He eased his big frame into a chair and motioned them to sit. They remained standing. “What has happened to your bard, Sidra?”

“A death curse. He has only hours to live.”

Malhari's eyes went wide. His fingers curved over the metal studs as another man might drum his fingers. “Why come to me?”

“Where in Selewin do you go for a death curse?”

“I go nowhere for such things. Curse-makers are unlucky, Sidra. You know that.”

She sat down across from him, hands spread on her legs. Gannon remained standing like a guard at her back. Sidra said, “You did not pay for that splendid house in the hills from this small inn. You are the person in Selewin to come to for information, for a price. Tell me what I need to know, Malhari. Do it for friendship or money; I don't care which.”

“If I am what you say I am, and if I had your information, how much would it be worth to you?”

Sidra's eyes narrowed, as if from pain. “Not friendship, then, but money.”

“You cannot spend friendship on a cold winter's night.”

“I think you would be surprised what you can do with friendship, Malhari.” She did not wait for the puzzled look on his face to pass but threw a leather pouch on the desk. “Gold, Malhari, twenty-five pieces.”

“And,” he said.

Sidra hesitated.

“You would quibble over the life of your friend?”

Sidra pounded her fist into his desk twice—violent, painful, but it helped the anger. It kept her from drawing steel and slitting his throat. Her voice came low and soft, the whisper of steel through silk. “That is three times your usual pay.”

“This is a seller's market, Sidra. Supply and demand.”

“Our friendship is no more, Malhari.”

“I know.”

“If Milon dies because of this delay, I will kill you.”

“You will try,” he said.

Sidra leaned toward him, and suddenly Malhari was staring at six inches of steel. The knife caressed his throat with no pain or blood, yet. He did not try to move, though he had several secreted blades of his own. He knew better than to try.

Sidra's words came careful and neat, soft and angry. “You have grown soft, Malhari. In the old days, I could not have taken you without your at least clearing a blade of your own. I will kill you if I want to.”

He said nothing but felt the blade dig into his throat as he swallowed. “You have paid a fair price. The one you seek is Bardolf Lordson. I saw one of Bardolf's lackeys talk to your bard tonight. Bardolf is powerful enough to have done the spell.”

Gannon cursed. “When we worked for Duke Haydon, I detected magic on Bardolf. I thought that it was not quite enough to warrant training as an herb-witch. But a curse-maker! It suits him.”

Sidra nodded. Bardolf had thought to bed a warrior. Sidra had broken his arm for the insult. Neither she nor Bardolf mentioned the incident to Duke Haydon.

“He is Duke Haydon's favorite son, bastard or not. We cannot kill him after he has cured Milon. I will not risk everything we have worked for in one act of vengeance. If Milon dies, things are different. But our true purpose is to save the bard, not to get revenge.”

Gannon said, “Agreed. We save the minstrel. If the curse-maker just happens to perish,” he smiled, “well, that is an added bonus.”

Sidra smiled. “Even a duke's son can have an accident.”

She bent close to Malhari's face. “Tell me where he is.”

“You wish more information from me, Sidra? I am a businessman.”

“You are a fool,” Gannon said.

The blade tip bit into Malhari's neck. Blood trickled down his throat. Sidra said nothing.

The innkeeper's breath caught in his throat. “For you, Sidra. Bardolf has a house on Silk Street.” He stared into her eyes and saw death. “Take the money, Sidra. I give you this information freely.”

She smiled then. “No, Malhari. If it was a gift, then the bonds of friendship would constrain me. This way it is only money, and I owe you nothing.”

He tried not to swallow around the point of the knife. “I don't want you to sell this information to anyone else,” Sidra said.

Malhari was having trouble talking. “I give you my word, I will not.”

“Your word means nothing. Gannon, if you please.”

“With great pleasure.” The sorcerer smiled. There was something of fearful anticipation in that smile.

Sidra stepped back from the man, quick and careful.

“Please, Sidra, I would not tell. I swear to you.”

Gannon made a broad sweeping gesture, hands upraised to the ceiling, and brought his hands down in a fast clap, pointed at the man.

Where Malhari had sat there was a large black tomcat missing one front paw. It yowled once and fell silent. Sidra had never seen horror on a cat's face, but she saw it now.

Gannon said, “It is a permanent shapechange, Malhari, unless I remove it.” He knelt, eye level with the cat. “It is almost a curse, but not quite.”

The big cat just stared at them, yellow eyes dazed.

Sidra said, “Come, we haven't much time.”

Precious minutes had passed before they stood in an alley that spilled into Silk Street. They were in a wealthy part of town. It was well known that Bardolf was the duke's favorite son, and the grand house showed it. The wealthy could afford magical guardians, things that normal steel could not touch. Sidra's long sword was such ordinary steel. The short sword was not.

Sidra unsnapped the locks on the hilt, and the short sword sprang to her hand, rising of its own accord. The sword said, “Ah, free.” Without moving, it gave the impression of catlike stretching.

“I may have work for you tonight,” Sidra told it.

The sword hissed, “Name me.”

“You who were Blood-Letter when the world was new. You who were Wound-Maker in the hands of a king. You who were Soul-Piercer and took the life of a hero. You who were Blood-Hunger and ate your way through an army. I name thee blade mine, I name thee Leech.” For every
name the sword had taken, the legend had ended with the blood blade slaying its wielder.

The sword chortled, “I am Leech, Leech. I am the bloodsucker.” The sword's voice dropped to a whisper. “Feed me.”

Sidra pressed the naked steel against her bare forearm.

The sword felt like any steel against her flesh. Gannon assured her that, once activated, Leech gave off an aura of evil. “Feed gently, Leech, for we have much work to do.”

There was always the chance that Leech would take too much and kill her. It had happened to others, great heroes. But the sword bit once into her arm. Blood poured in a sharp painful wash down her skin. The blade said, “Sacrifice made, contract assured.”

Sidra ignored the wound. It would heal in a moment or two to join the dozens of shallow white scars that crisscrossed her hands and arms. She did not bother to clean the blade. All blood was absorbed cleanly. It truly did feed.

Gannon stepped close, and the sword struck at him.

Sidra held it two-handed, saying, “Behave.”

“You don't frighten me, little knife,” the sorcerer said.

“Not afraid,” the sword whined. “No fun.” The sword turned in her hands as if looking for something. “Where is bard? Bard fears Leech. Baard,” the sword called, drawing the word out in a singsong, “Baard.”

“Silence, Leech.” Sometimes the blood blade seemed aware of everything that went on. It would spring from its sheath ready for action. At other times it acted as if it had been asleep until called. Sidra wondered what, if anything, the blood blade dreamed of. She doubted she would enjoy the answer, and she knew Leech would lie about it anyway. Blood blades were notorious liars.

She told the sword only that the bard was away. If the sword knew that Milon's life was at stake, it would demand a larger blood price.

Sidra sheathed Leech but left its locks undone in case she needed it quickly. The blade did not fight being sheathed; it was strangely content
tonight. It hummed one of Milon's own tunes—Leech's favorite—“Lord Isham and the Goose Girl.” There were two versions: one for the taverns and one for the prince's halls. Leech, of course, preferred the bawdy version.

She persuaded the blade to stop humming and scouted the house. She was a flicker of shadow, gone before you could look directly at it.