The Council of Shadows (43 page)

She hadn't been, from what the others said, but she'd also been here a year as a lucy. A pretty traumatic situation to begin with, and Shadowspawn could do things to your head. He'd experienced a little of that with Adrian putting in the blocks and wards; his cover identity would account for that, if he'd been a Tōkairin
soldato
once. They used their renfield mercenaries against one another in their squabbles and didn't want them to be too utterly vulnerable. But that had been clinical, not whatever the local monsters had been doing with her on a whim in this theme park for demons.

These village girls are tough, though
. He'd had enough experience with wetbacks to know that.
And Adrian said she looked mentally resilient to him. Now for the risky part.

If she yelled for the cops he was dead, or much much worse. Shadowspawn had ways of torturing you that didn't have to end with death. Just plain didn't have to
end
.

He waited until the older woman and the kids had driven off, then walked through the gate and up the brick pathway. The risers of the steps leading to the arched front door were mosaic tile, and there was a colorful surround in the arch above. It was a nice house, carefully maintained but lived-in; number one was the only other that did, and it had a couple of bicycles out front in racks, kids' models.

It wasn't the first time he'd knocked on a door that might have someone unhappy to see him behind it. Policemen saw a lot of that. He drew a breath and rapped; it was more personal than ringing the bell.

“Yes?” she said, when the door opened; Salvador had been pretty sure that she spent an instant looking at him through the peephole.

“My name is Eric Salvador, Señorita Cortines. I come from a certain man you met, who was not as he seemed.”

 

 

“Oh, fuck,” said Salvador; he'd never met Adrienne Brézé, and from the impact she'd had on other people he had no desire to do so. “She's
alive
?”

“Yes. Everyone else is not to know, you understand? So I can't say so, the witch makes sure of that. Only to you I can, I don't know why, my head doesn't start buzzing.”

That must be the Wreakings that Adrian had implanted.

Salvador stared at her. The Mexican girl seemed extremely selfpossessed, if a little pale and moving carefully. She was leaning back on a pale, elegant sofa, her hands busy with some sort of lacework, dressed in a silk blouse, braided belt, elegant slacks and tooled leather sandals, an orange cat curled up beside her. There were a few paintings on the wall; those would have been Ellen's while she was here.

But the bookcase held a slew of school primers and language guides and some illustrated books on crafts; and he suspected the color scheme, heavy reds and navy blues with highlights of orange and crimson and green, was the current tenant's idea. A plate of sugar cookies had been put out, and a pot of strong black coffee.

“You're . . . sure?” he said. “Sure she's not dead?”

She rolled her eyes; he had to acknowledge that it was a stupid question.

“
¡Ai!
The things the evil bitch does to me every couple of days, I'm very sure, me.”

“But she's gone?”

“Yes. She, her parents, Monica. Only the children left. They've all gone to get ready for this big meeting.”

She grimaced and took a small case out of a pocket and tossed a little white pill into her mouth and swallowed.

“She drank a lot of my blood just before she left, but already it hurts; and she made me help with Jose, so I'd know what was coming to me. This medicine from the doctor helps a little. She laughed about how I would beg her to beat me and take me in the worst ways when she came back. Damn her to hell!”

They were speaking in Spanish; it wasn't Salvador's first language, hadn't been in his family since his grandmother's time, but he was fully fluent and had been as long as he could remember. Though the dialect he'd learned from his grandmother's generation was quite a bit different from hers; there had already been more English words mixed in, for starters. Her English was reasonably good, but still heavily accented, and sometimes a little too much like a literal word-for-word translation for fine detail to come through to anyone who wasn't bilingual already.

He suspected she'd spoken a lot of Nahuatl before moving to the bigcity ambience of Tlacotalpan. Coetzala must really be in the boonies.

“She
nearly
died, she was very sick,” Cheba added. Clinically: “That would have been bad. I would have been killed myself, sacrificed. They do that, I hear, like the days of the old gods, sending the servants along with the master. Also—”

There was a disturbing glint in her big dark eyes, a flicker like a kiss of flame.

“—also I want to kill her myself. See her die. See her
die
! If that blond gringa can
nearly
kill her I can finish the job.”

“Then you will help us?”

Cheba put her lacework down. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” she said again. “
¿El brujo quiere mi ayuda? ¡Le costará!
If the sorcerer wants my help, it will cost him!”

“Well . . . he's offering a way to escape.”

“Like he did last time? And so I escape, what am I going to do? I have no papers, no money, I don't speak the language really well yet.”

“This is a bad place.”

She shrugged, her eyes hard. “I grew up selling baskets on the streets in Tlacotalpan. What do you think that's like for an
india
with no money? It's a bad place! I'm getting ready here, me, learning things. What happens to me—” Another shrug. “That bastard son of a whore Paco, the coyote who smuggled us across the border and sold us to the witch as
snacks
, he and his friends did things to me too. I saw him die, I'll see
her
die. Meanwhile I have a nice house and enough to eat, and I learn and I prepare. Revenge is like
mole
, you have to cook it slow for the best taste.”

Salvador hid an admiring grin, but he thought she caught a bit of it. She was smarter than most, but otherwise she reminded him of others he'd met, the ones not simply beaten down and numbed by misery. She had a lynx-eyed grasp of the main chance, and wasn't going to let anything get in the way. It was annoying, but she had never had enough to indulge in luxuries like sentimentality.

“Okay, what do you want?” he said.

“What do
you
want, you and your boss?”

“He wants the witch's children.”

“He's the father, right? She boasted to me about that, once. That she tricked him or something.” A sniff. “As if men needed to be tricked into
that
.”

“Ah . . . yes.”

“I have helped look after them a little. They are not bad children, but very strange. Now, here is what
I
want. I will help this man you work for to fight the
brujos.
I want a chance to kill Adrienne. Also I want papers, not a green card but citizen's papers, and I want enough money to open my own shop.”

She touched the lacework beside her on the sofa, gently nudging the cat's interest away.

“I have learned enough of what they like here. Some I can make, some buy from the south, I know where to go and I can bargain. What city for the shop, I am not sure. A safe place. Give me that and I will help.”

Eric Salvador grinned openly this time. “You are a lady who knows her own mind,” he said.

“I am one who has no time for foolishness,” she said.

 

 

“This is no time for foolishness!” Cheba said.

Adrian shook his head. The Brotherhood commandos were gathered in the safe house, a disused warehouse in Paso Robles they'd used before, a dim expanse smelling of old motor oil and olives. Adrian, Farmer and Guha, Ellen, and Eric Salvador; their backup and exit groups were elsewhere, waiting. The only ones without a look of shocked astonishment on their faces were Cheba and Salvador, who'd delivered the news. Adrian himself felt as if he'd been punched in the gut; Ellen had gone gray and staggered backwards to sit on an old fruit crate. Farmer and Guha had their heads together and were whispering frantically.

“I killed her,” Ellen whispered. “I swear to God I got her right in the foot with the hypo and pressed the plunger.”

“You did,” Cheba said. “But one of the other guests, the woman Michiko, cut off her foot almost instantly, before much of the poison got into her. Then she was very sick for months. The foot
grew back
. Like a bud on a plant.”

She shuddered. Adrian nodded; he didn't know if the original Shadowspawn had had that ability, but the Council's eugenics program had established it among the purebreds a few generations earlier. Probably in normal humans switching off that particular suppressive gene would have meant death by cancer, but his breed didn't have that sort of bad luck. Or perhaps the cells that went wrong had extremely bad luck themselves.

“We are very hard to kill,” he said, feeling himself gathering strength. “Very hard indeed. Things . . . fall out well for us.”

“I killed Michiko, though,” Ellen said, taking deep breaths.

“How do you know?” Cheba asked.

Ellen glared at her. “I shot her in the head with a silver bullet from a rifle!”

“Oh. Good for you, gringa!” Then briskly to Adrian: “So. This man here agreed to my terms. You will keep this promise.”

Adrian bowed gracefully, amused and impressed. “I authorized him to bargain for me,” he said. “The citizenship and the money are”—he waved his hand—“easy enough.”

“Easy enough for you!”

“Precisely. Easy enough for me,” he said, with a hard smile.

This was not a woman who would respect anyone who could be pushed, Power or no.

“You could have asked for more.”

“I asked for what I wanted. More I can make for myself. What I asked for, you owe me. It is justice, not charity.”

“Very well. As to Adrienne. . . I will kill her the moment I can. So will any of us here.”

Ellen nodded vigorously, and so did Guha and Salvador.

“
Shit
, yeah,” Farmer added. “Get a number and stand in line, señorita.”

Adrian amplified: “I certainly don't object to your killing her if you get a chance. Be my guest; you have ample cause. But nobody will let her live an instant longer than they must. She is too dangerous, too tricky, too likely to seize any opportunity to wiggle out of a trap.”

Cheba scowled ferociously for a moment—Adrian thought there was even the hint of a pout—then reluctantly nodded.

“
Bueno
. I see that this is necessary.”

“Living well while your enemy does not is the best revenge,” Adrian said.

“A head cut off and put on a stick is the best revenge,” Cheba said with enormous sincerity. “Still, you are right, she must be killed.”

“As to protection, no place will be safe while the Shadowspawn rule. The
world
is not safe; they plan soon to kill on a scale that the worst conquerors of the past could see only in nightmares. I will do my best; but I guarantee nothing and I wash my hands of you if you do not follow my orders in matters of your safety from them. Agreed?”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Agreed. You are a man who does not promise more than he can do, I think.”

“You're right,” Ellen said unexpectedly. “Adrian . . . are we still going through with this plan?”

“Yes,” he said decisively. “That Adrienne is alive makes everything that has happened in the past year . . . acquire a different meaning.”

“No
shit
,” Farmer snarled.

He put his hands to his head. “Nothing on precog . . . Anni?”

“Nothing,” she said. “But with Adrienne, it would be like trying to see a match against a bonfire.”

Adrian nodded. “We must look at each event through a different lens.”

Guha and Farmer looked at each other; the man shook his head, and she shrugged slightly.

“But this plan is still good. Dead or gone, she is not
there
, and neither are my parents, so there is no adept at Rancho Sangre. Even better, if we have the children, we have a lever over her.”

Ellen looked at him, surprised and a little shocked.

“You wouldn't
hurt
them?”

“No.” A hard smile. “You know that. Adrienne will suspect it. . . but she will not be sure, and she will be restrained by that uncertainty. Also it will injure her prestige with other Shadowspawn, which can only be good. Whatever she plans, whatever her cunning, she cannot simply sweep them aside. If we can prevent Trimback One, the Brotherhood is in a position to thwart her plans for the parasmallpox plague.”

He looked around; the others remained silent. “Then let us do as we planned. With one modification.”

Except for Cheba, the others were already in tough dark clothing and boots, gear that would be practical in a fight without screaming
military
or
terrorist
to a casual observer. Light flexible body armor of the latest nanotube variety didn't bulk them out unduly, and for once the Power wouldn't be with the other side. The weapons were Tavors, Israeli machine carbines with a full suite of sensor sights, and grenade launchers; the silver-inlaid and warded knives were a backup this time. Ellen had her sniper rifle, and they all wore comm headsets.