The Council of Shadows (16 page)

Adrian had turned. Now he lounged past her, heading in the other direction, then leaned against a wall like any man out for a stroll and eyeing a pretty girl.

“You are doing splendidly. They will act soon,” he said quietly as she passed. “And if we had not married,
I
would still be sitting on a mountaintop brooding.”

Then he ducked behind an elderly Jewish couple, came back through a gaggle of Chinese teenagers chatting in French—there were a lot of East Asian immigrants around here—and strolled slightly behind her. His looks made it easier for him to blend in; her blond height and figure always attracted attention.

Duquense was speeding up when he suddenly turned left into a narrow alleyway.

Wreaking,
Ellen thought with a shiver.
There was a
possibility
that he'd do that, no matter how remote. So a little push with the Power, and he
does
do it, willy-nilly.

Ellen walked past it, stopped and stooped as if to fiddle with her shoe an arm's length along the next building. Adrian came up behind her and turned directly into the narrow curving backstreet. She reached under her jacket and laid her hand on the butt of the little Five-seveN automatic, drew it, then turned and followed him in, holding it down near her thigh. The heavy silver amulet around her neck was tingling, seeming to itch at her skin.

A tableau was frozen for an instant as she and Adrian entered the alley. Three men and Duquesne. The academic's hand was raised in futile protest as one of the men drew a long knife from under his jacket and the other held him by an elbow and the back of his neck. Adrian faced the third, farther in, who'd been standing with his hands resting on the knob of his walking stick as he surveyed the murder-in-progress.

Shoot the one with the knife
, her training told her.
He's the immediate danger. Don't assume he'll go down with the first round.

Ellen blinked at the calmly ruthless thought, even as her hands came smoothly up with the gun ready. The two men threatening Duquesne were unremarkable, except that they both looked very dangerous, moving like lethal dancers—one squat and a little darker than Adrian, the other with the drawn blade taller, with oddly silver hair.

Even the single glance aside as she brought the weapon up and aimed showed that the man her husband faced was different—he could have been Adrian himself, aged a decade, and dressed in an opera cape, tails, white tie, gloves, gold-headed ebony cane, shining topper and gleaming shoes with spats, a white flower in his buttonhole . . . the complete outfit of a boulevardier from the earlier part of La Belle Epoque.

All that as her eyes flicked across. The man with the blade who'd been about to stab Duquesne snarled.

“Hold him, Joko,” he said; he spoke in French with a British accent. “I'll handle the bitch.”

Then he was coming at her, knife held low with the point up, fluid and sure—only three long strides away. She was slightly crouched, leaning into the weapon with her left hand under the butt.. . .

And her finger froze.
This is real! That's a human being! I can't do it!

The knife caught a glitter of distant streetlight. That made her act, and without thinking. Without thinking with the forward part of her brain, the one that was a good small-town girl with a slather of selfmade junior-grade artsy-academic across it. A chunk of her hindbrain had met knives before, in the memory palace.

They
hurt
.

The somatic memory didn't give a damn that the experience had been imaginary; it knew exactly what it was like to die with seven inches of blade through the lungs. Her finger contracted just as the man's shoulders tensed to drive the steel home. That put the muzzle barely a yard from his chest.

The little pistol didn't have much recoil, but it was
loud
. The sound slapped back and forth between the limestone facades of the buildings on either side of the narrow little street, like someone snapping an elastic right into her ear. The flash was almost blinding through her slitted eyes, flicking through the dimness like miniature lightning.

The sequence went automatically after that.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

Six shots into the center of mass. The man turned as he fell to come down on his face, and the knife skittered away, ringing on the granite paving. The little sharp-pointed hypervelocity bullets deformed and tumbled through bone and flesh like miniature saws: six neat holes in the shirt, and a shower of bone and flesh fragments punching out his back to leave a crater the size of her paired fists.

Some distant part of Ellen's mind thought:
I just
shot
someone! A real human being, and he's
dead
for real!

The rest of her was moving, a swift half skip sideways to get a clear shot at the squat man who held the professor.
That
part of her had shot hundreds of men—and women. Just projections of Adrian's mind, or sometimes his mental image of himself, but the sight and the feel and the very
smell
were the same, the acrid scent of burned nitro powder, the jerking thump of impact, the tang of blood and the boneless finality of the dead body.

The platinum ferrule on the ebony cane in the dandy's hand poked towards her; she grunted at the impact of an impalpable force. Her mind seemed to blur, as if her brain had been invisibly shaken, and the amulet was uncomfortably hot now. Everything from a slip and a cracked skull to a stroke, epileptic seizure and heart attack trembled on the verge of
realization.
Adrian's hand moved, and the instant passed, but the trigger froze under her finger as something malfunctioned.

The second renfield killer had wasted a instant staring incredulously at his dead comrade, and another drawing a gun and firing at her. It jammed too. Ellen dropped her weapon, leapt backwards and drew the knife from under the tail of her jacket, where the sheath lay point-up along her spine. The steel came out and up, leading; she stood with the right foot a little advanced behind it, crouched, left arm held across her chest with the hand stiffened into a blade.

“You kill Chance,
putain
,” he growled at her.

He chopped Duquesne under the short ribs with the edge of his hand, paralyzing his diaphragm, then shoved him at her. She swayed aside and let the Frenchman fall; time enough to help him later. He thudded into the wall and slid down it, struggling to breathe, his eyes wild.

“If that was his name,” she said, much more calmly than she felt; any delay was welcome.

“Salope,”
he snarled, which meant
bitch
, more or less. “I will cut you deep for that.”

He drew a knife, a balisong that skittered through a sinister metallic
chink-click-click
as he flicked it open and locked it. The angry rush she half expected stopped before it began. He saw the stance, the way she held the blade and kept most of her weight on her back foot. She could see it flowing into his mind along with the way she'd shot his partner and dodged Duquesne.

All moving instantly into his fighting gestalt as:
Much more dangerous than she looks. Don't take any chances.

He advanced warily, his own weapon held in a different grip, point down with his thumb on the pommel.

“Vous êtes une pomme de terre avec le visage d'un cochon d'inde,”
she said.

She'd always wanted to call someone that: it meant,
You are a potato with the face of a guinea pig
. It was much more insulting and less funny in French.

He cut and stabbed, a horizontal slash and then a backhand punch of the knife towards her face. She leaned back, just enough to let the steel pass.

It was disconcertingly as if someone else were operating her body, and doing it by fits and starts.
Stopping
doing it when she thought about it.

Then stop thinking or you'll die!
she scolded herself desperately.

The thickset man had staggered a little as the counterattack he expected didn't come, then almost ran himself onto her knife as she let the conditioned reflex thrust underarm towards his belly.

Just more practice,
she told herself.
You can get hurt, but the pain's all there is to fear. No real people involved.

As they circled and feinted another part of her was hoping desperately that Adrian would finish whatever he was doing and come to the rescue, fast.

 

 

“Nephew,” the Shadowspawn said, slinking a pace closer.

“Great-uncle Arnaud,” Adrian acknowledged, with a slight inclination of his head. “Looking as vicious and depraved as ever, I see,
mon tonton
.”

“You always were a charmingly polite lad.”

The other man looked solid; Adrian could even smell his rosewater cologne. But there was a something, a glitter that the eyes did not quite see.. . .

Of course, he's been postcorporeal for seventy years. But I'd know it anyway. Not really a man there, something that
looks
like a man because the hindbrain remembers.

“And I always did hope I'd meet you like this,” Arnaud said amiably. “Killing you will be an intense pleasure in a life grown a trifle dull.”

His hands turned the walking stick, and nearly a meter of narrow blade slipped free. The gloves must be insulated very thoroughly; there were silver inlays on the blade as well, and there were preactivated glyphs, warping probability towards bane and ruin and sickness. Adrian could feel them buzzing through the fabric of things, drawing the paths negative. His own blade came into his hand, a Brotherhood-style tanto. He excluded all worry for Ellen from his consciousness; it would do her
no
good at all if he lost this fight, and it would take all he had.

“As I recall,” Adrian said, “killing me wasn't quite what you had in mind last time we met.”

“Oh, the two are related,” Arnaud said. “You were a beautiful boy.”

He fell into a fencer's pose—an exceedingly old-fashioned one, knees bent at right angles, like a Victorian duelist—and whipped the cloak around his left arm, keeping the sheath in that hand.

Watch that
, the fighting part of his brain reminded him.
Arnaud was always good at
la canne
too
.

“And perhaps I had a killing in mind as a finale at the time, eh?” the older Shadowspawn said.

The point of the sword darted towards his eyes, fluid and swift and sure. If that sliver of graven steel went home in his brain, it would be the Final Death. And Adrian had more than his own life to save.

Ting
, as the long knife beat the slender spike aside, a shivering quiver up the nerves of his right hand.

He whirled inside the thrust and struck with the knob that tipped the tanto's hilt. Arnaud parried it with the sheath portion of the swordcane; for a moment they were locked, faces inches apart. Then Arnaud broke back, whirled in again with a looping elliptical
savate
kick. It was blindingly quick; Adrian took it on his crossed forearms, and it was like being kicked by a horse. He rode it in a double back somersault and came up again, breathing hard.

“Bah, an
apache
weapon, that knife,” said Arnaud as he came back on guard. “Could you at least not use a decent stiletto?”

They circled. The steel whipped down towards Adrian's foot; he danced over it, and felt his mind automatically snarling through Mhabrogast phrases as he did. Their psyches grappled, slid, retreated, baffled. Nature reasserted itself as the Power canceled out.

“Why kill the human?” he asked.

“Why not?” Arnaud shrugged. “It seemed a lucky thing to do, and I was here in Paris and had no pressing engagements.”

Which made perfect sense, in Shadowspawn terms. He could even sense lack of will to deceive in the words, though with an adept you never knew.

Another lunge, and then a whistling blow with the sheath. Adrian threw the knife, and as Arnaud blocked it he threw himself forward and down, heels to buttocks and head to knees with his arms wrapped around his shins. Rolling like a ball, the pavement battering at him, and then into the other man's legs. Arnaud managed to catch himself on his hands, but the younger man was already turning, leaping his own height in the air, driving one heel down between the shoulder blades . . . . . . of an empty dinner jacket.

He hissed the curse in pain, as his foot slammed into the pavement, only slightly cushioned by the empty clothes, and nearly pitched over backwards. The impact jolted all the way into his pelvis and up his lower back, pain just short of tearing gristle and cartilage. A wrenching effort let him regain his feet and stance. Something like a cross between a seven-foot weasel and a great cat ran up the wall and paused to hiss at him before it disappeared over the roofs.

Ellen,
he thought, spinning away.

That gave him just enough time to see the second renfield turn and run four paces away from her, then spring up into the angle two walls made. He scaled it in an acrobatic zigzagging rush, looking as if he were walking up the vertical surface by vaulting from one wall to the next, then twisted backwards over her head in a somersault.

Le parkour,
Adrian thought.
Very impressive if—

Ellen did
not
let herself be hypnotized by the seemingly impossible arc. Instead she turned calmly beneath it, and was waiting as the man fell out of the sky. There was a strangled shriek as her tanto flashed, and then the man staggered away out the mouth of the alley. Screams of alarm came from the crowd outside.