During one such pause, he looked up from his prayer to see a pale figure in a deep lavender dress approaching on the narrow path that led from the Sanctum. Elayne Kevarian. No one else would advance on the Technical Cardinal with such determination as he prayed. He did not want to speak with the Craftswoman, but neither could he avoid her.
She stopped a few paces from him, short-nailed fingers tapping at her slender hips. “Praying, Cardinal?”
“As is my custom,” he admitted with a nod. “Not every night, but as many nights as I can manage, I walk the grounds. Pray the prayers. See to the wards.”
“I wondered about that,” she said. With her toe she carved a small trench in the gravel before her. “I understand the basic protective circles, the purifying patterns, but containment … Wards to keep Kos in? Doesn’t seem very respectful.”
“They were built years ago, in the depths of the God Wars. Seril’s death hit this city hard.”
“I arrived shortly afterward to work on Justice. I remember.”
He shuddered, and searched the empty sky for words. “Some of the Church fathers worried Kos would try to leave his people, run to the front and perish with his lover at the hands of the Deathless Kings.”
She said nothing.
“They made this circle in vainglorious hope of keeping him here, safe, with us. All were punished for their presumption, but the circle remains to remind us of the cost of hubris.”
Ms. Kevarian looked back at the tower, rising black and thin above the precinct. “War,” she said. “It sounds so normal, doesn’t it? So pretty.” That last word blighted the air as it left her throat. “A few bodies impaled on a few swords, some bright young boys skewered by arrows, and done. What we did, what was done to us, was not war. The sky opened and the earth rose. Water burned and fire flowed. The dead became weapons. The weapons came alive.” A gleam appeared at the Sanctum’s pinnacle as a novice set lanterns for the evening. Their light reflected off Ms. Kevarian’s flat eyes. “Had Kos joined Seril at the front, she might not have died. We might not have won. If you can call anything that happened in that … war … winning.”
It took effort to find his voice. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” she said, quietly, “whatever you think of me and my kind, whatever you blame us for, know this: Kos was a good Lord. I will not let the same thing that happened to his lover happen to him.”
Gustave let out a harsh bark that could not have been called a laugh. “Was that what you told Seril’s priests before you blinded their goddess and made her crawl? Before you blackened their silver and tarnished their faith?”
The distant lights of Alt Coulumb cast a thousand shadows at their feet.
“I was a junior partner last time,” she replied after a long silence. “I did not have much control over the case. This will be different.”
A tide of anger swelled within the Cardinal, and he mastered the urge to snap back: I hope so, for your sake and mine. I have fought to defend my Church and my God, and I will fight for them again, until the seas boil and the stars fall. He took a slow breath, and rode that tide until it subsided. This woman was his ally, or so she claimed. She deserved a chance. He turned his face studiously downward.
“If you say so, Lady.”
*
The two left wheels of Tara and Abelard’s carriage lurched off the ground as the driver swung them into the narrow gap between a large driverless wagon and a mounted courier. Tara scrambled to the elevated side of the passenger cabin, eyes wide, and shot an angry look at Abelard when he chortled.
The airborne wheels returned to the cobblestones with a bone-jarring thud. Tara’s teeth clapped together so hard her jaw ached. “Is our driver insane?”
He brought one finger to his lips. “Don’t let him hear you. Cabbies in Alt Coulumb are touchy, with reason. The Guild has zero tolerance for accidents.”
“They fire you if you have a wreck?”
“It involves fire, yes. Trust me, there’s no safer place on the road in Alt Coulumb than in a cab.”
“Especially when there are cabs on the road,” she noted as they cut off a one-horse hatchback, which careened out of control into a delivery wagon.
On the carriage floor lay a canvas sack Abelard had retrieved from his cell. From within, he produced a shiny black mass that unfolded into a pair of leather trousers. Kicking off his sandals, he slid the trousers on beneath his robe. When he saw her curious expression, he said, “Everyone keeps a few personal items. For special occasions, nights off, you know.”
“Those look pretty tight.” This wasn’t because Abelard had extra fat on his bones. His legs were rails, and the leather accentuated their meagerness. She watched him lever the pants into place with some concern for what would happen to his anatomy when they were ultimately fastened.
“What did your boss have to say?” He pulled a shirt from his bag.
“Nothing.”
“She knows what we’re doing?”
“I told her we were going to find Raz, the captain who brought us here.”
“The vampire.”
“Right. I told her some Iskari naval claims will influence how we proceed, and, judging from the condition of Raz’s ship, I thought he might have inside information. I gave her your notebook.”
“You didn’t say anything about the Iskari contracts and Kos’s death?”
“No.” The carriage lurched, and she gripped the inner railing to steady herself. Abelard had unlaced the front of his robe, and was unfolding a white muslin shirt with narrow sleeves.
“Isn’t it worth mentioning?” As he lifted the robe over his head, he passed her his cigarette. It was lighter than she expected, and warm to the touch. She had smoked before, but something about the way he handled his cigarettes made them look heavier than normal.
“Of course it is.” She studied the glowing orange ember. “You were right, back in the archives. This is my first big assignment, and I don’t want to run to Ms. Kevarian whenever something important comes up. I want to have a complete story for her when she asks about the Iskari contract.”
I can’t risk looking weak,
she thought but did not say.
There are people waiting to see me fail.
The ember faded as she watched, starved for air. No sense letting it die. As she lifted the cigarette to her mouth, though, she heard a rustle of fabric; her fingers stung and were suddenly empty, and Abelard had his cigarette again. He stuck it into his mouth with a possessive glare, took a long drag, and exhaled smoke. “Which means we need to track down a vampire in the middle of the Pleasure Quarters at night.”
He had extricated himself from his brown robes, and the change was shocking. Where a novice once sat, young, eager, earnest, now rested a young man of Alt Coulumb, slick and polished in a rake’s tight clothes. The tonsure spoiled the effect so adroitly that Tara had to suppress a laugh before she spoke. “You said you knew someone who could help.”
“I’ve been studying for the priesthood since I was a boy, but I have a friend who spends a lot of time in low places. She knows the undercity.” His gaze trailed out the small window into the gathering night. “The question is whether she’ll be in any shape to help us.”
*
Catherine Elle arched her back and let out a scream of iridescent pleasure. Her world was bright colors and ecstasy, an explosion of light that shattered the shadows of the bar and broke the pounding music’s rhythm. Each second was beautiful and forever, a torrent of lava in her blood, melting her then cooling and compressing, tightening.
Until it was over. Then, the music seemed only repetitive, high strings slicing out a basic melody over punctilious bass. The room was small and dark, clogged with smoke and the sour stench of stale sweat. The strobing dance-hall lights cut her into slices bereft of movement, picture after picture of a small woman in a private booth in a disgusting bar.
The vampire raised his face from her wrist. Blood ran down his chin in rivulets. His eyes were wide in shock or fear, and the wound in her wrist was already closing.
“What the hell,” she said. “What the hell.”
Awareness returned slowly as the whiplash subsided. She knew where she was: a little booth off the Undercroft’s main dance floor, one of the myriad nooks Walsh set aside for clients who needed a little privacy. A translucent damask curtain separated the booth from the gyrating bodies on the dance floor, a smoky meld of flesh tones and black leather.
She rounded on the vampire. “You let go. You dropped me right when it was getting good.”
“Cat.” His fangs hadn’t retracted all the way, and there was still blood on his lips, so he spit a little as he tried to say her name. “You were way gone, you were great, I didn’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”
“Didn’t want to hurt me.” He reached for her arm again but she pulled away and he stumbled off the couch, colliding with the far wall. “You think I’m a damn cup? You drink up and put me down?”
Falling, the vampire cut his forehead on the corner of a picture frame—some pale-skinned human chick, mostly naked and wrapped in roses and thorns. The artist thought blood was the same color as roses, but neither the roses nor the blood in his painting was the same color as the blood—Cat’s blood—drying on the leech’s chin and shirt.
His excuses sickened her. She reached for the curtain.
“I took you as far down as you could go,” the leech stammered. At least he could talk now without spitting everywhere. “Farther than I’ve ever taken anyone. No human could have survived so much.”
“You saying I’m not human?” Her voice went low, menacing.
“You should be lying on the floor! You should be limp. You should be…” He stopped. Knew what was good for him.
For a moment she felt a little soft. “When did you get to the city, kid?”
“I’m fifty years old.”
“When?”
He snarled, and looked into her with a gaze that drunk life. He met something in her eyes that fell on him like a wall, and he flinched and recoiled.
“When?”
“A month back,” he said after a while.
“Living rough?”
He staggered under her question. “I heard the city was a good place to find work.”
“Last month. Hell. You’ve spent fifty years jumping farmers’ daughters and scaring livestock.” She wore a belt of braided black chain around her tight black skirt, with twenty gold coins woven into it. She worked two free, sunk a fraction of her soul into each, and tossed them on the booth seat. “There. Buy yourself someone who’s not looking for pleasure out of the deal. But for the love of Kos, don’t go around claiming you’ll be able to take a girl somewhere she’s never been before.”
He leapt for her, teeth bared and sharp, hands clutched into claws.
She dodged his grasping arms and brought her elbow down hard on his neck as he sailed past. He dropped to the floor and lay there.
“What are you,” he said, panting. “A Stone Woman?”
“A Stone Woman?” She spat on him. “A woman wants more than you have and she’s a godsdamn abomination. I was going to let you go easy.” She put the toe of her boot into the small of his back and pressed.
He screamed.
Before she did anything more, the curtain ripped back to reveal a man so large he eclipsed the dance floor entirely: Walsh, the bar’s owner and minder.
“Ms. Elle,” he said. “Is there a problem?”
She shook her head, and the world shook with her. Somewhere behind the mass of Walsh, the party continued. “He called me a Stone Woman, Walsh.” She heard the plaintive, angry whine in her voice and hated herself for it. “Can’t hold his blood, and he attacks me and calls me a Stone Woman.”
The vampire writhed on the floor. She had removed her boot from his back when Walsh arrived.
“This woman hurting you, buddy?”
The vampire muttered something in the negative, and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. It took him a moment to stand.
“Don’t forget your tip,” Cat said, not breaking eye contact with Walsh. The vampire cursed her in what sounded like Kathic and scuttled out. He took the coins.
“You can’t keep doing this.” Walsh’s voice was so deep it competed with the bass. “I run a clean place.”
“Guy was a cheat. A hungry cheat.”
“Being hungry’s not a crime.”
“Used to be good vamps in this city, Walsh. One sip and I was gone. What happened?” The bad comedown was getting to her, haze clouding the edges of her vision like spectators at a crime scene. She staggered forward, put out a hand, leaned on him for support. He hesitated before resting one ham-hock arm around her shoulders.
“You ever think the problem isn’t the vamps?”
“Whatchyou mean,” she murmured into his chest as he guided her out of the booth.
“I mean you’re in here every night, here or Claude’s or one of a half-dozen other places. You started with the kiddie leeches, and you’ve been moving up. Before too long, it’ll be you and the real old ones, and they can drain you in seconds. You won’t be able to give them lip or beat them up if they mess with you, either.”
“I c’n beat up anyone.”
“Sure you can, Ms. Elle.”
They made their way back to the bar, skirting the edge of the crowd. Somewhere in that dancing mass a young kid was getting her first taste. A quick bite and she’d be flying.
The bar was sparsely peopled. Walsh pulled a glass and a bottle of gin from the middle shelf and poured the glass half full for her. “Look, Ms. Elle. Do me a favor. Drink this, go somewhere, clean yourself up. Read a book or something. Don’t hurt any more of my customers.”
She downed half the gin with her first pull, the other half with her second. “You shouldn’t let that trash in anyway. Gives you a bad name.”
“Will you go? Please? One night, clean and mostly sober, no sticking anything into any veins?”
She looked at him incredulously. “You’re kicking me out.”
“Better to drink and run away and live to drink another day, kiddo.” He motioned to one of the bouncers, a tall, square-shouldered chick with bright orange hair and a blouse cut off at the sleeves to expose daunting musculature. She escorted Cat to the front door, pushed her outside, and shut the door behind her.
The dark alley stank of stagnant water. Two gas lamps shed pale light on the cobblestones, and a large metal dumpster a few yards away swelled with trash. Halfhearted graffiti overlaid deep old scars left by the talons of Stone Men.