Vengeance (26 page)

The creature chased Buzzy into the water, and he screamed, “Call the police! Help me! Get help!"

For a moment, Jake considered going to help, but the spellhound was inhumanly strong, and Buzzy had nearly killed him; he was still losing blood from the knife wound.

"When it licked us, it was testing for magic.” He held Sylvie close, stroking her hair. “But it also sampled us. It only took seconds to build a submicroscopic clone of us inside it, one that's linked to all of us. That one is called Buzzy. The girl's called Tanya. They know my name as well as I know theirs.” He sighed. “I don't suppose they're worried about my name at the moment.” He stared into her eyes. “Don't be scared,” he pleaded.

"When it bit you, did that cause this, your second sight?” Her voice quavered only slightly.
My brave, fearless girl
, he thought in admiration.

Sylvie's head lolled, then snapped up, and her eyes widened. “Jake Saunders,” She whispered. “Your middle name.” She giggled. “Jew never say it was that."

He nodded. “It's telepathy. And more, because we've each got a microclone inside us. So I know everything it knew. And her, and you—how you felt.” He stared at her, willing her to speak.

Buzzy's shrieks intensified as he swam further and further out, but the spellhound still gained on him. The shrieks became screams, then stopped abruptly. There was silence. Except for the whirlwind of little voices within. Jake wondered if they'd ever fade.

"It has no life except death,” he said. “It has no family, no friends. Just centuries of death and pain to look forward to. I think it half hopes we may cause a paradox. That it might cease to exist, if I know of its existence ahead of time.” He paused, “I don't think it knows half of this itself."

"But you may make it happen,” she said.

"I know. So I'm not going to do anything I wouldn't have done and behave exactly as usual. Stay, please. Marry me. Make that leap of faith,” he pleaded.

The spellhound departed as they huddled in the beach huts; it rose from the water like an orca, called once—an unearthly cross between a wail and a bellow—and vanished as abruptly as it arrived, with a small clap of thunder from air rushing to fill the vacuum.

Jake winced when he tried to move, and his hand came away sticky. He still had images of lines of men and women in chains with bowed heads running through his mind, of death hunts and an eternity of tyranny and repression. “Magic or science, it should be used for good,” one of those little voices had said. Perhaps the soldier-poet or the starship pilot. The immortal held in a four-year-old body. Or his friend the junk shop owner. “I can't live life second-guessing the future, though,” he said, as they huddled for shelter.

Sylvie said, “We need to get to a hospital. Come on."

"Not yet,” he said. “Tell me you'll marry me.” He deepened his voice in a cheap Boris Karloff impersonation: “Don't forget, I can read your mind.” He kissed her cheek, gently as a snowflake.

She laughed. His dreadful humour had convinced her that whatever happened he was still her Jake.

"Poor little sods."

"Don waste your sympathy. They just animals."

"You're probably right.” He sighed. “But that's what
they
say in the future about their underclass.” It was a low blow. To soften it, he laughed. “Dangerous enough for you now, am I?"

She said. “I tink so.” She turned to him, her eyes large in the moonlight. “But what if someone steal the magic again?"

"One of the things about living dangerously is that you
have
to take risks,” he said and thought of death hunts. “I believe in you.” He kissed her nose. “So I have to believe we can make it work."

"Jake? If it's okay ... If you want to risk it ... I stay."

Jake felt lightheaded, maybe from relief, maybe from loss of blood. As their strange blood brother fell back through the years, fell towards their future, they kissed long and hard, down by the breaking waves.

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Sinhalese held the dress to her chest, nodded, and smiled her approval. She turned and said, “Poppa, hello. What do you think of the dress?” Then, “What's wrong? Poppa?"

Duff leaned on the doorframe. His normally ruddy face had a gray, clayish tinge. His mouth worked several times, but no words emerged.

Sinhalese rushed to him. “Come sit on the bed. Damon!” she cried, and the zombie appeared in the doorway. “Get a brandy. Quickly!"

She helped her father to her bed, and he sat down heavily. His jaw worked again, but Sinhalese interrupted hastily, “Shh! Don't speak yet. Let Damon get the brandy.” She patted his hand, trying not to look too worried.

Task reappeared, glass in hand.

Duff sipped it, leaned his head back, stretching his neck muscles. Finally he spoke, and his voice at first was a croak but grew gradually stronger, “I went to the bank. While I was there, I looked over the news. I don't normally bother. But someone said there was trouble with the Third Spice Mercantile Bank."

Sinhalese looked blank.

He explained, “The bank the Pantile woman said she had some money in. I bought some shares, and as the price climbed, two more lots—by the time the price dipped a bit, it'd still trebled from what I'd first paid, so I bought some more. Still they climbed, so I bought one last lot. The price peaked about two months ago, at twelve times the original price."

"But, that's wonderful!” Sinhalese thought,
I must be stupid—what's the problem?

"Yes.” Duff laughed. “When they dropped, I thought, ah they're dipping a bit, I'll buy some more. They were still eight or nine times the original price. The next lot, the last—were about half that price. I should have sold.” He laughed bitterly. “But I didn't.” He shook his head.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure we'll survive.” Sinhalese wished he'd just say it.

"I'm sure we will,” he admitted. “But it will hurt us. The shares have been suspended. There's talk of investigations, fraud, investors losing their money.” As he talked, he grew more agitated.

Sinhalese patted his hand. “We'll be okay, I'm sure."

He looked at her, and it was if a hand squeezed her heart. “I spent a long time with the accountants,” he said. “The Pantile woman has sent an interim bill for work done. It's huge."

"Can't we simply cancel?"

"We could,” he admitted, “but we still wouldn't have the spells back. She reports she's recovered seven, or casings where they've been used and can't be replaced. Her reports show she's eliminated the perpetrators as well. But we don't get the spells until we pay."

"We'd better pay, then,” Sinhalese agreed.

"And we can't find her to terminate the contract to stop her running up any more expenses. Blast these one-woman bands!"

Sinhalese stroked his hand again. “So we'll miss a few parties in the next few weeks."

"No.” Duff looked at her steadily. “That's the last thing we do. We need to show our faces to everyone. Sometimes,” he added, “the best thing you can do is keep going."

"Good!” Sinhalese felt a huge weight of relief lift from her. He'd just needed to talk to someone. He'd been shocked, that was all. “If we could sort out that little weasel, Sproat—"

Duff interrupted, “We'll need to economize, my dear. We may need to sell the house here and just keep the one in Frehk."

"Poppa! No!” Sinhalese added hastily, “You know how much you love it here, too!"

"I do,” Duff agreed. “But we can't afford both, with all the other things draining our finances. I can return some of the temporary spells once I've paid that woman, but..."

"Then we should simply miss a few parties and events. Honestly,” she insisted, “it doesn't matter to me."

"I know, poppet.” It was his turn to take her hand. “But as I said, appearance is all. If we show we're in any kind of trouble, the problems with Sproat will only be the start. Every upstart who wants to make a name for himself will call ‘round, issuing duels. Or those I've offended, the ones too gutless until now, will want revenge."

"I'm sorry, Poppa,” Sinhalese said. “I'm sorry your spells were stolen. Sorry for all this."

He lifted her chin, kissed her forehead. “It's not your fault.” His face grew hard. “When we catch the villain, he's going to suffer if I have my way. I'm tempted to tell the Pantile woman to take him alive.” His voice softened again, as he smiled at her. “I'm sorry too, my dear."

She nodded. “Could that woman have known the bank was in trouble when she advised you?"

He chuckled. “I wondered that. I doubt it. And I put the extra money in. She couldn't have known that when she suggested it. She'd have to know me as well as I know myself. She'd had to have been watching me for years, and I think that's unlikely."

Before she could say anything else, he leapt to his feet and kicked at a statuette by the door. “I've had enough!” He added, “I may go hunting. I feel an overwhelming urge to kill something. D'you want to come?"

She felt a spasm of revulsion but hid it and answered, “No, I'll stay here. But thank you for asking me.” He'd never done so before, and she was secretly delighted he'd included her. “Go and enjoy yourself.” She shooed him out.

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"Mother, it's hot in here!” the woman said to another guest, who nodded agreement.

"Packed them in like fishes in a can,” the second woman said. “Must be out to set a record for most guests at a party in Meroë.” She laughed. “It needed something to lighten the mood after that fiasco at the castle a couple of weeks ago. Thirty-five killed, including a lot of Meroë's big players."

The first guest helped herself to a canapé, ignoring the clothes rack who'd stood next to them throughout their entire conversation as if she wasn't there—which of course she wasn't.

The clothes rack wanted to sit down so badly she thought she might fall at any moment. She dared not move a muscle though—it had taken her weeks to find work at all, let alone as well paid as this. Standing immobile for hours at a fashionable affair might not have matched her childhood dreams, but it was better than starving, and if she angered the host by moving anything other than her eyes, lips, and lungs, she forfeited her wages and risked being passed over for future engagements.

Her name was Aminé Ghosht, and she didn't know her age or her real parents. If she'd been treated a little better than an animal by her uncle and aunt, she might never have taken the long walk to the city. When she found an expeditor who offered her work other than spreading her legs, she had replied to his question of what she could do, “I can stand stone-still for hours.” Her ability had saved her from beatings more than once in the past, and now it might enable her to live in comparative luxury for a few days.

"Of course Helen and Firenze's parties are without equal.” The first woman had finished nibbling.

"Without equal,” the second echoed, then stifled an excited shriek: “Oh, look! Isn't that Firenze himself? Coo-ee!"

They scuttled away, and the clothes rack almost breathed a sigh of relief but stopped just in time.

This was the only way she would ever get to attend such a grand affair in the city of Meroë. The host had laid on the best of everything. Belly dancers for the men, exotics for the women, both sexes suitably enhanced. The out-system string quintet playing classical pieces had been nice, though by contrast, the play had completely mystified her. “It's called a noh,” she'd heard one guest tell another. “From a place called Amerik.” She wished she could have tried some of the meat collation, some even taken from live animals, an astonishing array of fruits and vegetables all laid out on metamorphic platters that changed to reflect the mood of those around it.

Apart from hunger, incipient cramp, and the need to pee for the last three hours, it hadn't been too bad. It had been the first time she had seen the great and the good of Meroë at close quarters, and she wasn't impressed.

Aminé studied three of them furtively. There was a dark shaggy giant called Duff. He'd called the zombie Damon Task. He must have been something when he was alive, she thought. Even now he was still good-looking, and she wondered if the stories she'd heard about zombies’ sexual stamina were true, although she'd probably never find out.
Unless you move at the wrong moment and end up dead as a result,
she thought wryly. She'd seen one of the other women jostle the girl who was the third one of her trio, spilling her drink, and the girl had turned on the woman a look of such pure evil that it was all the clothes rack could do not to step back herself. Then the man had intervened, smoothing things over coolly, adding sotto voce in a tone that chilled the clothes rack more than any shouting, “She'll step through a window later, Sinhalese. A very high window."

And Sinhalese smiled.

Amine watched the girl use her face and body as if they were a weapon, scattering victims in her wake like a one-woman barbarian horde.

Around her father and D'Acosta, she was Daddy's Little Princess. Those from whom she wanted something, she charmed. Those for whom she had no use, such as the other guests, she ignored.

Aminé could see her employer's husband was appalled, yet fascinated by these elemental forces of nature that had crashed into his party.

They left soon after ten, just as the dancing began, despite their host's gallant attempts to keep them a little longer.

"No, Ser D'Acosta,” Sinhalese said. “Much as I'd love to stay, it just isn't possible. We must be back in Frehk tomorrow for a meeting. But thank you anyway.” She'd taken his plump beringed hand and kissed it in the local fashion. “We'll meet again, I'm sure!"

Helen D'Acosta saw them leave, vanishing from the middle of the rooftop dance floor of the new pyramid, leaving Firenze momentarily deflated. They'd worked so hard to get it right, she wasn't going to let the party lose its momentum, so she grabbed him for a close encounter.

When she let him go she looked around, contented. Lights were dimmed so on two sides the guests could admire the night view of firefly lit Meroë from their eagle's nest. The other two sides were windows onto elsewhere in the solar system. The panels changed at regular intervals so they relaxed the guests who preferred sitting to dancing.