Shadows of Falling Night (22 page)

Theresa was a prim-looking middle-aged woman in a conservative business suit, with graying black hair and an olive complexion; in her hand was a small businesslike revolver, with the tips of the bullets shining a dull silver where the cylinder exposed them. The click had been her thumb pulling back the hammer of the simple single-action weapon. Ironically enough, Ellen was in more danger now than she would be with a Shadowspawn adept. The defenses Adrian had Wrought would keep the Power at bay long enough for her to run or get help.

None of it would help a damn with a nine-millimeter bullet traveling at over a thousand feet per second, and she couldn’t Wreak to sabotage the weapon. The silver wouldn’t do her any extra harm…but it wouldn’t be any less effective than simple jacketed lead, either.

And Theresa had just exactly as much compunction about killing as Adrienne. Less, in fact, since Ellen was fairly certain Adrienne badly wanted to keep Ellen unwillingly alive for some time, possibly millennia. Whereas the renfield would be perfectly content to just kill her, for purely practical reasons and because she’d always disliked Ellen, who hadn’t had what she considered the proper (abject) attitude for a lucy during her time at Rancho Sangre. Neither she nor Adrienne had read the Evil Overlord List, but the human was much more attuned to its pragmatic spirit.

“Returning to the scene of the crime, like a dog to its vomit?”

Said the bitch,
Ellen thought but did not say.
Damn, I’m not nearly as scared as I used to be. Which is good…and a bit scary in itself…but just as grossed out.

Instead she went on: “What exactly do you think Adrian will do if—”

“If I kill his lucy?” Theresa said.

“Wife,” Ellen said with a friendly smile. “Kill his wife.”

Theresa’s finger tightened on the trigger, and for a moment Ellen thought she’d been overindulgent by giving herself the pleasure of puncturing Villegas’ self-image; prodding the tiger, or in this case hyena, through the bars was only safe if there
were
good solid bars. Then it relaxed: the steel of self-interest proved strong enough for the flash of murderous hate. At some level someone like Theresa Villegas had to hate herself most of all, but human beings projected that outward more often than not.

“And of course what Adrienne would do to
you
,” she finished cheerfully.

That didn’t intimidate Theresa as much as she’d hoped. “Yes, she has plans for you.” A gesture with the gun. “This would be a mercy, which is why I’m
not
going to shoot you…as long as you leave. Immediately.”

Ellen turned her back on the renfield and continued to lift the sheet. There
was
a corner of paper there, and it
was
the same type as the notepad, as near as she could tell after the pseudo-body’s pseudo-stomach acids had been at work on it for a few moments.

Why would a desperate post-corporeal eat a piece of paper? It would show up as soon as…oh. You’d have to root around. And post-corporeals start out as corporeals. The habits persist…look at this compartment, there’s all the proof you need they
really
really persist!

“I will shoot you on the count of three…the
Doña
is usually rational given a little time to think…one…two…”

“All right, all right,” Ellen said, straightening and tucking the pen away after wiping it on the blanket. “Have a
nice
day once she gets back.”

She was still smiling when she closed the door of their compartment behind them. Then she sat and shuddered with her hands knotted together and pressed to her forehead.

I do not, not, not want to live this way! I’m spending most of my time around people who are like something out of a fucking horror movie! They all deserve to die! I hate these people! I hate the fact that I hate people and want to kill them!

A year ago she couldn’t have imagined killing someone even in self-defense, much less enjoying the thought. She still had her pistol in her hand when the handle of the compartment door clicked. If it was the train staff, they simply wouldn’t notice it—another thing she didn’t like was
manipulating
people all the time, even if it was for their own good or just to stay out of their sight.

“It’s me,” Adrian said softly, probably sensing her emotions. “They have calmed down, for the present.”

Ellen gave a shivering sigh of relief and gripped him fiercely as he came through.

“I adore you too, darling,” he said, putting an arm around her. “But put the gun away first,
hein
?”

She took a deep breath and did. When she let them the reflexes she’d acquired about firearms operated automatically; and she hadn’t actually
pointed
it at the back of his neck, anyway.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I’m…not sure,” she said. “But here’s what I found—”

When she finished they were on the sofa, her head against his shoulder. She could feel the puzzled frown in his voice.

“Theresa would not have threatened you unless she
truly
wanted you out of Arnaud’s compartment.” Then quietly: “And some day…we will have to have a little talk about that with her.”

Ellen shivered slightly. Most of that sound in Adrian’s voice was outrage that anyone should threaten her, which was heart-warming. A slice of it was sheer cold aristo arrogance, though. Even that was
slightly
heartwarming—his subconscious was indignant that a servant should threaten a Brézé, meaning her.

“I think…Arnaud was about to do something that Adrienne didn’t want. Either she killed him or she had someone else do it.”

“But what? Even by Shadowspawn standards, Arnaud was…whimsical. And as far as he had any politics at all, he backed Adrienne’s faction.”

“That’s just it,” Ellen said slowly. “Maybe he
learned
something.”

“And then there is the means,” Adrian said.

He took the envelope and rubbed a little of the powder between thumb and forefinger. Then he shook his hand, spitting a curse and rinsing it in the little compartment sink.

“This is powdered silver, prepared in a rather arcane and complex fashion. The Brotherhood use it sometimes, but it requires careful camouflage. If you can conceal it until a nightwalker shall we say slides into bed…the agony would be indescribable. Not fatal, but enough to thoroughly distract.”

She brought out the tablet, notepad and pen. “Maybe if we held this paper up against the light, or scattered shavings…”

“Ah,” Adrian said with satisfaction, laying them out. “I would not have seen this pattern.”

He turned until they were facing each other and inclined his forehead against hers. “May I?”

She nodded, and made herself relax. Most importantly, she made her
mind
relax, concentrating on the warmth of his skin and the slight clean scent of his cologne and thinking of nothing in particular. A shiver went
down her spine, and the whole sequence from the moment she opened Arnaud’s compartment door flooded into the forefront of her consciousness. All at once, with everything she had thought/felt/seen/smelled/touched.

The memory ended, and his hand stroked her hair. “You were very brave,” he said. “
And
very intelligent. That was dangerous, and you handled it perfectly. But now that you have, let me see if I can make a contribution.”

He sat back, turned, and put his hands on either side of the notepad and closed his eyes. After a moment she could feel him humming; then he began to murmur—in Mhabrogast.

That always gave her a feeling like tinfoil between the teeth. It was illogical to think of an arbitrary collection of syllables as evil, but somehow you
did
feel that way when you heard it. Adrian had told her he had to ration his use of it because of the way it affected you if you thought in it for too long. He wasn’t sure why; possibly it was the nature of the outlook the Power gave you, or possibly it was because the Brézé savants who’d reconstructed it in the Victorian period had colored their work with their own personalities.

After a moment he reached out, took the fountain pen and twisted it open with a single motion of his strong slender fingers. The ink in the reservoir dribbled down…and then began to sort itself, rolling in tiny beads across the surface of the paper without sinking in. When they did there were words on the surface, a single sentence written in an antique looping copperplate:

She knows, and she has—

Adrian sat back and sighed, rubbing at his temples. The last few letters in
anothe
r trailed away, a scrawl that turned into a squiggle.

“A little more efficient than pencil shavings. Though probably a forensic
laboratory could have done as much…possibly not, and in any event we do not
have
a laboratory.”

“It’s not exactly…straightforward.”

“No, and that is
exactly
like Great-uncle Arnaud; even in his death he is exasperating!”

“What could it mean?” Ellen said.

“Obviously
she
refers to my sister. Though with Arnaud, one can…could…never be absolutely sure. But what is it that
she
knows? And what does she have? A plot, a plan, a weapon, a spy? It would be easy to go mad trying to figure
that
out.”

They went through the files on the tablet; mostly those were Classical music, ebooks—few of them dating much past 1930—and amateur video, which she couldn’t look at for long. Surprisingly enough Shadowspawn rarely abused children—humans didn’t
taste
right before puberty—but Arnaud had pushed the envelope that way, to just barely adolescent victims. One section did have maps, including Adrienne’s distribution plans for Trimback Two, the plague. It wasn’t labeled, but she recognized it from things she’d overheard while she was Adrienne’s prisoner.

“Arnaud wouldn’t have crossed Adrienne for just anything, would he?” Ellen said.

Adrian shook his head. “Nobody not completely insane crosses her without good reason. Granted, though, if one
is
insane…I was being truthful in what I said to the others. He
was
always impulsive. And he became more so as time went on. His precognition was always very strong for one of so early a generation, but he relied on it rather than schooling or disciplining it, doing things simply because the idea welled up into his mind. Sometimes true prescience, sometimes simply whims. But whatever it was she knew, it was something we do
not
want her to know, and whatever she has, it will be regrettable.”

“When could Adrienne have killed him?” Ellen said. “If we can pin it on her…”

“We cannot. Not directly. She brought in Monica and opened her mind to show that she was…ah…strenuously occupied at the time and completely preoccupied.”

Ellen winced. “Poor Monica.”

Adrian’s mouth quirked. “She was actually quite proud.”

“Like I said, poor Monica. So Adrienne didn’t do it with her own hands…or mind. She had someone else do it.”

“We may be jumping to conclusions ourselves,” Adrian said thoughtfully. “But…yes, that
feels
correct. I cannot be more specific, not with an adept of her power muddying the waters.”

“God, Shadowspawn playing cards with each other must be a joy,” Ellen said.

“Chess is better. Though few have the patience for it.”

“I thought predators were supposed to be patient?” Ellen said sardonically.

“More like spoiled housecats,” Adrian replied dryly. His finger traced the paper. “I will show this to Great-grandfather. It would not be admissible evidence in a court, but the Council of Shadows does not…”

“Work that way, yeah. More like on moods, personal grudges, cabals, sheer desire to stick it to someone, that sort of thing.”

“How well you know…them. It will be enough to divert suspicion from me, or at least muddy the waters. Still, I wonder
who
Adrienne brought in.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Belgium

“W
e will be landing in Brussels shortly,” the pilot said over the intercom. “Will everyone please take their seats and fasten their seat belts.”

That was no surprise; the very slight falling-elevator feeling you got had started a few minutes before. Eric had talked with the pilot a little on the long flight; not much, and that was because the pilot himself didn’t want to. If they hadn’t both been graduates of the Suck, Eric suspected communications would’ve been strictly limited to “yes, sir” and “no, sir.” The pilot knew there was something very odd indeed about Adrian Brézé and presumably about his friends, knew the pay was good, and had absolutely no desire to know any further details. His copilot was even more set on minding her own business.

“Please fasten your seat belts, and keep them fastened until the plane comes to a full and complete stop.”

There wasn’t much to be seen; they came down through layers of gray cloud that had a sort of psychic glumness to them, chilly and dull even when you only saw them through the porthole of an airplane window. It was the type of weather that made you want a cup of hot chocolate with some rum in it despite the fact that you were indoors and perfectly warm and comfortable. All you could see below the final level of cloud cover was a cluster of tall buildings to the south, and endless built-up area everywhere else.