The Council of Shadows (27 page)

 

 

Peter Boase gripped the silver table knife convulsively. The night was much cooler than the day even here in southern Arizona. Outside the night was silent, save for the hoot of a great horned owl once as it glided past. He tensed at the sound, relaxed as he realized what it was, then tensed again.

It's not paranoia. They really
can
turn into birds. That would be a good way to scout around.

His eyes flicked to the ancient LCD beside the bed. One o'clock in the morning. Hours before the sun would come up and. . .

Make things just a little less dangerous. There's absolutely nothing to prevent one of them from walking in at noon and just fucking
shooting
me. Or one of their hired guns. That would make me just as dead. Adrienne had that platoon of mercenaries working for her. Plus the police in Rancho Sangre. Plus probably they could have the
government
send people to kill me. No, make that certainly, from what they said around me, and they had no reason to lie. It actually explains a lot of things, once you know they're pulling the strings.

Maybe it
was
paranoia. How could you think about this stuff and not go crazy? There was even a slight impulse just to slash his own wrists with the sharpened table knife and get it over with. It wasn't the animal escape from pain that had tempted him while he was undergoing withdrawal. Now the impulse came from the knowledge that he probably
was
going to die anyway, and very painfully, and the sheer tension of waiting every second.

He hadn't bothered to close the window. The fresh air was worth it, when the people . . . things . . . he feared could walk through walls. He'd gotten thoroughly sick of the smells in this room, too.

But the wall-walking thing meant they could be right behind him. Right
now
.

He turned quickly. Was that a noise?

“Nothing. Sheesh!”

Peter straightened up with a shaky laugh and turned back towards the door.

The front six feet of the giant python were already reared up man-tall. He had just enough time to see the head flash as it struck like a triphammer into his shoulder, and the knife went skittering across the floor. Then the coils were whipping around him, like trying to fight a berserk steel cable, around his ribs and his left arm, squeezing, squeezing.. . .

 

 

“Isn't it wonderful that Peter escaped?” Ellen smiled.

She lay back in the deeply padded recliner and fought not to sleep as the engines rose to a muted scream outside and acceleration pushed at her.

The aircraft was an Airbus A321 Elite, a two-engine wide-body that had served as the toy of an oil prince, before being sold on the rental market when he tired of it and bought something more recent; he'd probably moved up to an A380, because judging by this, the concept of restraint wasn't one of the files on his hard drive.

“Perhaps it's your Power operating without your knowing it?” she asked.

Effectively the plane was a luxury penthouse with wings, complete with gym, study, entertainment center and two huge bedrooms, with an air of jasmine and ozone. Half the cargo compartment below was extra fuel tanks, which gave it more range than a B-52. She felt a little guilty using it for the pair of them—the normal complement of passengers would be over two hundred—but it was the first thing that had been available, if money were no object.

“Yes,” Adrian said. “That could well be so. The Power”—he smiled grimly—“operates in mysterious ways.”

This thing reminded her a little uncomfortably of Adrienne's private jet, though it was bigger, and the decor—Birdseye marble tile in the bathroom, Persian carpets in the lounge area—was considerably less restrained. Gaudy, in fact, though extremely expensive and very well maintained.

“Particularly where many purebreds, many adepts, are involved,” he went on. “Strokes of
luck
may happen, yes, but they may be. . . ultimately . . . lucky for someone else than the first recipient. Coil upon countercoil.”

Wow,
Ellen thought.
It takes a bit of getting used to, strokes of luck that
really happen
.

He frowned a little. “Even so, it seems rather odd, since normally my parents would have killed any of Adrienne's lucies who survived her. Granted, I am more purebred than they, but they are
there
and the Power attenuates according to the inverse-square law, generally.”

Ellen winced at the thought of the orgy of slaughter that had probably followed her escape.
Poor Monica
. The den mother of Lucy Lane, with her brownies and her sympathy . . . and Jose. . .

Jose might get off. He's a native, born into the service of the Brézés. God, I hope Monica's kids are okay. They don't
feed
on kids but that doesn't mean they wouldn't
hurt
them. Adrienne's parents . . . Adrian's too . . . they were always charming, and I got the distinct impression they'd watch people thrown to crocodiles and make witty repartee about it.

There was no way to tell for sure, of course. It had taken all Adrian's command of the Power and the Brotherhood's resources just to
find
the main estate of the California branch of the Brézés. None of them was going into that maze of traps arcane and physical again if they could help it; plus Adrian's parents were there now, which put two adepts in charge instead of just one. They were postcorporeal, but that wasn't much of a handicap.

Adrian quirked a smile at her. “You are a refreshing change from the people I have associated with most of my life, my sweet.”

“Honey?” she said.

“You
are
sweet,” he said. “Empathetic. You care for people. Even people you met in a very horrible place.”

“So are
you
a sweetie. You've just . . . not had much opportunity to show that side of yourself.”

“The running and hiding and fear and killing and death do tend to limit opportunities for emotional expressiveness.. . .”

“I could
hit
you sometimes, Adrian!”

“You see what I mean.”

She laughed. “Besides, the people you knew can't have
all
been bad. Those Brotherhood types are on the side of the Good, Pure and True. Right?”

“So were the men who saturated Dresden and Tokyo with incendiary bombs until streams of melted human fat ran in the gutters,” he said. “One becomes hardened, if you live at all.”

Then he surprised her a little by reciting:

He shook his head and snorted a little. “Living with you challenges me,” he said. More softly: “And shames me. I have not
dared
to feel deeply, for fear of loss. That is unpardonable cowardice.”

The rental came with pilots, maintenance and cabin staff; she suspected Adrian would have done without the latter if he could, and it had meant keeping certain parts of their luggage locked and in the bedroom. Even with a private charter like this, people would talk if you carried an assortment of lethal hardware on board openly. Which reminded her . . . “What about going through customs?”

This time his smile was a little ironic. “My darling, I can use
both
the Brotherhood's and the Council's . . . safe words. Codes that will tell the officials to turn a blind eye and wave us through. They undoubtedly think—”

“—that we're spooks,” she finished, and thumped herself on the forehead with the heel of her hand. “I feel like
I'm
walking through walls all the time. The bottom dropped out of the world, but as a compensation I get to go through all these cool secret doors. I suppose I'll get used to living down the rabbit hole. Only it's not Wonderland, it's WonderHell.”

“I hope you don't have to live so,” he said. “Not for long, at least.” She noticed that he didn't say she
wouldn't
spend the rest of her life doing just that. One of the things she liked about Adrian was that he didn't overpromise.

The staff brought them dinner and retired quickly at his glare; Adrian was usually gracious in a sort of de haut en bas way, but this time he was deliberately cold, to keep them out of contact as much as possible. It was unlikely that more could endanger them, but there was no reason to take extra chances with bystanders.

Ellen looked down at the meal; steamed asparagus with herb sauce,
Kasseler Rippchen
—smoked, brine-cured pork chops in an egg-andcrumb crust—finger-length golden-brown potato
Schupfnudeln
.. . .

She began to laugh. At Adrian's raised eyebrow she ate a bite of the pork, savoring the smoky, salty richness, and then spoke:

“I was remembering my first cattle-car-with-wings across the ocean. NYU was by-God going to expose us art history types to the original font of
kultcha
, even if we had to suffer for it. My seatmates on either side weighed three hundred pounds each, and . . . Well, I wasn't picky about food then, but. . .”

Adrian winced. “I could not endure it. No, literally. My, ah, reflexes would be too likely to get the better of me. We do not adapt well to crowding, my breed.”

Thoughtfully: “One can go into trance, of course. But that leaves you so helpless.”

They finished with
kranz
ring cake, sweet buttercream frosting studded with toasted hazelnuts, and a filling of cherry preserve. After a moment they were feeding each other forkfuls across the table.

“This is
weird
,” she said, using a napkin. “We get honeymoon crossed with deadly peril.”

“Spice added to spice,” he said.

The dark yellow-flecked eyes burned at her, and she felt a shiver prickle over her skin. She reached into a bag and smiled.

“Recognize this?”

He blinked in puzzlement. “No . . . some medical device?”

“It's made for people suffering from anemia,” she said, and stuck her finger in it. “Frau Saraçoğlu had it expressed to the plane for me. God knows what
she
thought I needed it for.”

“Did she ask?”

“Yes. I said you were a vampire, but considerate.”

Adrian gave a shout of laughter. That gave
her
a spike of pleasure; he wasn't exactly gloomy, but it wasn't exactly a common thing to see him lose himself in a moment's humor, either. A little light shone green and the digital display lit up.

“Ah, red cell count normal, pressure normal, flow normal, viscosity normal . . . Think of it as compensation. With you having the Power, I don't have to worry about birth control. I
do
have to keep track of blood loss.”

He raised a brow. “It would be advisable for me to be . . . fully charged. Though we have blood-bank supplies on board.”

Ellen grinned at his involuntary grimace; she knew how loathsome cold, dead blood tasted to a Shadowspawn. Adrian was the only one she'd met who would use it at all.

“C'mon. That double king-size bed is calling our name. We're going into danger. So first, let's
party
.”

T
he reticulated python of Asia was the world's largest snake. For a flashing instant some part of Peter Boase's mind contemplated the irony that his last thought would be a totally irrelevant piece of data like that, culled from a random Wikipedia search years ago.

Then he was rolling on the floor with four turns of the thigh-thick, thirty-foot body around him. It threw a loop of its tail around a leg of the bed for leverage and the needle teeth bit into his captive shoulder. Air wheezed out of his lungs as the terrible pressure squeezed inward.

His scrabbling right hand came down on the knife, gashing his fingers. He gripped it and flailed at the snake's diamond-patterned body, cutting himself again, and then slashed at its head. But the tip penetrated the taut skin, and the long head came up with a hiss. It whipped aside and the nose struck the base of his thumb like a jackhammer; the hand spasmed open and the weapon went flying a second time. That gave him a single instant to gasp in a breath before the pressure resumed.

Cold reptile blood spattered his face. He wheezed again, and waited for the cracking of ribs and death.

Crackcrackcrackcrack
.

Peter thought the stutter of harsh elastic snaps was the end, his own bones giving way like green sticks; then the intolerable constriction eased. He lay struggling to draw in air with his diaphram half-paralyzed. The python blurred as it thrust itself at the wall.. . .

He blinked. It had gone
through
the wall, as if it were diving into a horizontal pool of water. Then it was gone. Hands gripped him under the arms and threw him into a chair; two dark-clad figures sandwiched him, backs towards him and pistols leveled outward in professional two-handed grips. Their sweat stank of fear.

“You get him, Jack?” the third man asked, his voice the rasping drawl of rural Texas.

Like them he was in nondescript dark outdoor clothing; his long, bony face was battered and weathered, and gray streaked his cropped brown hair. He threw several packs on the bed as he spoke.

“Clipped him,” one of the men said in reply. “Tail, I think. He didn't have time to Wreak on the guns. And using a snake's brain probably slows your wits.”