Choose Your Enemies Carefully Page 13

  "I can't," he said.

  Herzog half turned in a sudden rattle and clash of fetishes and power objects. "You have the power. You know how to free your spirit. Why have you stopped this time? The Dog or the Man of Light?"

  Sam hesitated, and Hart shot him a look.

  "What is the Man of Light?" she asked.

  "Nothing," Sam said quickly to keep Herzog from answering. "It’s nothing. Just some kind of subconscious symbol. I'm still having trouble breaking through to the spirit realm that I’d need to reach to do what you want."

  Hart stared at him but said nothing. Sam gave a brief prayer of thanks when she returned her attention to Herzog.

  "So, shaman. Will you do some recce for us?"

  "I will. It will take time."

  "Then we will leave you to it," Estios said. The deal made, the tall elf vanished into the darkness. Hart delayed to thank Herzog, then reached for Sam’s arm. The shaman stopped her.

  "He stays."

  Sam saw the surprise in Hart’s face flash to annoyance. He himself felt afraid. "Why?"

  "You need to learn."

  Sam started to object, but Hart spoke. "He’s right. You need to learn as much as you can. Besides, if you’re here, you can make a first call on whether what Herzog finds out is important. It might save a lot of time."

  "But you—"

  "But nothing. You know he won’t work with anyone other than a shaman present."

  "I’m not a—"

  Herzog exploded with the huff of air that was his laugh.

  "You are what you are. You must come with me now; the badges are coming."

  Sam looked around. He could see little in the darkness, but he could hear distant splashes. Someone coming all right, several someones. There was too much noise for them to be runners, so the approaching persons were most likely one of the local constabulary’s periodic sewer patrols, and magic wouldn’t hide them from the patrol magician. When he turned back, Hart was already gone. She had slipped away silently into the dimness, where her elven eyes could see what he could not. He would never catch up to her. Left with no other choice, he followed the retreating Herzog. Even the grumpy Gator shaman was preferable to a brush with the metroplex police.

  They stopped when Herzog was sure they were safely away from the sweep patrol. Herzog leaned against the tunnel wall, immobile. Sam could barely hear him breathe. The Gator shaman had never shown much altruism before, yet he had accepted Hart’s charge without dickering on the price.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "Need."

  "But we haven’t offered you anything. Don’t think Estios will pay whatever you ask. You didn’t name a price, so he won’t pay one."

  Herzog’s huff was soft, too soft to carry back down the tunnel, but Sam heard it clearly enough.

  "I do not do this for the ice-eyed elf. Nor for your paramour Hart. I do this for you. You must see that the way is safe, that you can walk the path if only you accept what you are."

  "I have accepted it. I’ve learned spells. I can project astrally at will."

  "You delude yourself. If you had accepted your shamanic nature, the path to the spirit planes would not be blocked. Until you accept the other reality, you will not achieve what you seek. Until then, you are your own worst enemy."

  16

  What Dan Shiroi said made sense to Janice. His attitudes and reactions were all reasonable, given the context in which he had to live his life. But that context was hers, now. Like Jaime Garcia and Han and all the others who were part of Dan’s hidden organization. Wherever in the world they lived, they were all the same breed of metahumanity.

  Dan was a good teacher. With his guidance, she was doing things she would not have believed possible. The spells and the focusing of astral senses came so easily. Already she could mask her appearance with a spell and walk among norms without their knowing what she was. Her childhood dreams of magic were being fulfilled.

  The magic had come with her second change. It was a blessing. And a curse. Masked by magic, she heard the norms talk when they thought that they were among their own kind. She heard the slurs, the jokes, and the put-downs. She heard the hate. It curdled her soul.

  Dan was right; their kind had to band together. Norms hated anything that was not just like themselves. They hated metahumans worst of all. The larger and stranger the metahuman, the stronger the norms hated. Once, she had believed that the hate was driven by fear, the terror of the strange and unknown. She had begun to suspect that the hate came from somewhere else, some dark part of the human soul. Wherever it came from, the hate was real.

  And there were so many more norms than metahumans. Even great strength and superior senses couldn’t keep her safe from a mob. That early excursion when she had let her concentration slip had shown her a vulnerability that she had thought she had left behind. Her thoughts fled back to that awful snowy day when her illusion had faltered and she had stood revealed on the street. The norms had turned on her, calling her a monster and an eater of children. She had fled from their shouts and they had chased her, cornering her in an abandoned building too much like the one in which Dan had found her. But this time, it hadn’t been ghouls who pursued her but normal people, people who had only moments before been conversing politely with her. And this time she had been healthy, for what little good it had done her. The mob’s hatred and invective had flayed her worse that their fists. If Dan had not found her again, she would have been ripped to pieces by the norms. Though they had hurt her badly, Dan’s healing touch had soothed her.

  She had learned who her friends were. She had been taught her place in the world.

  She looked down at Dan’s sleeping form. The setting sun’s rays insinuated themselves through the shuttered windows to tint his fur with rosy color. He would awaken soon and be about his business. He always said it was her business as well, but as of yet she had little to do, save study the magic he taught.

  With the magic, she could touch an essence that was pure, and strong, and free. Dan had led her through a cave at the center of the world and shown her the marvellous land that lay beyond. There, she had met her totem, She had seen His flashing eye and felt the full softness of His fur. In the stillness of the night, she had heard His soulful call and looked up to see His silhouette racing across the sky to dance with the moon. Wolf had chosen her as His own. She felt proud that the old woods runner had found her satisfactory.

  She was slowly coming to understand Wolf, coming to feel the predator in herself. Her heart was full of the clannish pull to stay with and defend her own kind. Her limbs held the strength of the wild. She was ready to stand against those who would sunder her from the pack. Wolf offered her the power to make her own way and rend the weak-willed souls who would keep her from her destiny. Yes, she was beginning to understand Wolf. And she was a bit frightened of herself.

  Dan’s hand on her shoulder awakened her from her reverie. She realized she was standing at the window, staring at the darkness gathering over London’s old East End. The rebuilt district was little different from its predecessors. Killers stalked the dark streets and purveyors of every vice made their lairs there. The East End was still a teeming hive, full of nasty, ugly people and suffused with their sufferings and depredations—an urban wilderness. Dan said that made the area suitable for her current stage of magical development. And so they stayed in a fortified apartment building. He promised that soon she would be ready to move on.

  "Is something bothering you?" he asked.

  "No," she lied. Her fears and concerns were too vague for words. Her inability to articulate them would lessen her in his eyes. He prized strength, and she would be strong for him.

  "Good." He kissed her. "I thought that tonight we might try another journey to the other realm. Your last was encouraging."

  "All right." She felt a thrill at the thought of seeing Wolf again.

  He took her hand and led her down to the basement where they held their practice sessions. Han was
already there, spreading herbs to scent the air. As usual, he said nothing, but nodded in acknowledgment of Janice’s greeting before settling his furry body behind the drum. Janice lowered herself to the floor, stretching out while Dan intoned the spells that would ensure their privacy.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  "Eager." she replied.

  He sat cross-legged by her head and rested his palms on either side of her face. He began to sing the travel chant, and Han picked up the beat with the drum. Janice listened to the music until the words were lost to her as voice and instrument blended.

  The sound throbbed through her, its pulse filling every cell of her body. She let herself drift into the cadence, riding the flow deeper into a shamanic state of consciousness. The dark hole opened before her, but she had become familiar with it and was not afraid. She slipped through the opening and flew downward. The passage was short, free of hindering shadows, and she emerged in the other world.

  The moon shown, just clear of the horizon. It was full and lovely. She greeted it and heard the answering response of Wolf. Her joy swelled. This was how she was meant to live, unfettered and free to do as she would, feeling the cool air on her fur and smelling the myriad glorious scents of the other side of day. The night had become her favorite time.

  She ran.

  There was no urgency in her pace, just exuberance. She ran because she wanted to run, to feel her muscles moving in vital rhythm. A white wolf ran at her side. He was larger than she, stronger too, but he was no threat. This was her mate and they ruled the pack.

  They were strong and healthy. None could challenge them.

  They ran.

  The moon hung in the sky, but she didn’t need its light. Her eyes were keen, her nose keener. Little escaped her notice, least of all the scent of prey. A flash of white—a startled rabbit burst from hiding. They gave chase, bounding over obstacles and racing past obstructions to herd the prey. Sometimes she would close on it, only to have it make a rapid turn and elude her. Sometimes he would crowd it, forcing it toward her.

  A hedge of tangled brush loomed ahead. The rabbit, sensing safety, redoubled its speed. He surged ahead, cutting across its path. The prey hauled up short, quivering. It turned, ready to continue its flight. Seeing her so near, it froze. He pounced, slapping the rabbit to the earth with a paw. It struggled against his indomitable strength, to no avail. He looked at her, offering her the honor of the kill.

  The rabbit sensed their exchange and turned fearful eyes on her. It pleaded for its life. Didn’t it know that its place in the natural order was to serve as her prey? Why did it struggle harder as she approached? This was the way of things. The wolf was the hunter, the rabbit the prey.

  Frightened, terrified eyes.

  She hesitated. It’s just prey, he said. Meat.

  Yes. Just meat. Why couldn’t she bring herself to close her jaws on its throat? She hung her head and turned away. She didn’t want to see the scorn in his eyes.

  The rabbit gave a soft cry as he dispatched it. She listened to the sounds of him tearing up the carcass. When he finished, he offered her meat.

  She took the meat. Its juices rushed the taste through her mouth, blasting the sensation to her brain. This was the food she was meant to eat, no other. Wolves ate rabbits. It was the way of the world. She bolted another strip of meat.

  In time, he said. There was no accusation, no scorn. She felt his patience and basked in his love. He understood. He would wait for her to take the steps at her own pace. He had promised that there would be no pressure, and he was living up to his word.

  She loved him.

  After they had eaten their fill, they ran again, racing the moon to the horizon. She was exhilarated by the physical effort, made more alive than she had ever been before. Their running pace eventually slowed, speed waning as their fleet paws matched rhythm to the measured beat of the drum. The journey was ending.

  She awakened from the trance, feeling rested and well fed. Dan had her recount the experience and said he was pleased. She knew he meant it.

  He had some things to take care of before bed, so he went away. She wandered back upstairs and stood at the window, wrapped in the lassitude of satiation. Down in the streets of the East End, the morning crews were cleaning up the debris of the night. Scavengers. No doubt they helped themselves to whatever the true predators had left behind. She watched a scruffy pair haul a maimed body from a building. Another derelict being taken away, another victim of the plex. Another day in London.

  17

  An ebon boy in a glittering cloak of silver danced along the electron pathways, but the pattern faltered. A whirling measure would abruptly end in a few stumbling steps. The dancer was eager, but his steps were constrained as though the dance floor was slippery. In every direction there were datapaths in all of their myriad multitudes, but none offered what he sought. Following any one only led to frustration, the dance halting as the pathway expanded into a diffuse and indistinct mass of branches. Each branch was a trail of connections that vanished, becoming an array of untraceable links. The only ones that stayed solid led to unbreakable ice or mundane and unimportant data.

  He was frustrated. And angry. The ebon boy folded his cloak around himself. Dodger jacked out, and the boy vanished from the Matrix.

  Dodger stared down at the datajack. He couldn’t figure it out. There should be more connections than he could follow in a day. The circle of druids they chased were prominent people in England. At least the ones whose names they knew were prominent—highly placed businessmen and—women or members of the aristocracy, whose everyday lives were matters of public record.

  The Hidden Circle was living up to its name.

  Why couldn’t he make connections? Secret societies rarely managed to avoid leaving a trail, especially in these modern times when no organization functioned without some computerization. Magical organizations were usually even easier to track down; their members rarely comprehended the intricacies of the consensual hallucination that was the Matrix, that hypothetical pseudoreality that was a second home to Dodger. In the Matrix, a good decker should be able to trace the connections between people and organizations. And Dodger knew that he was better than good.

  These druids, despite all their magic, were a technosavvy bunch. There was not a hint in the Matrix that any of them were more than they appeared to be in the mundane world. He had not even been able to learn the names of the unknown members of the Hidden Circle. Without records of the Circle’s organization, he couldn’t tell who among the contacts of the known Circle members were also members. Looking for registered druids was no real help. Many practicing magicians didn’t bother to comply with the Registration Act, and the members of the Hidden Circle seemed likely candidates for such an act of civil disobedience.

  From the absence of data, he might have given up, believing that there were no other members. But Sam insisted that there had to be more, and Hart had backed him up. They said that a druidic circle was three times three. The runners had names for six of the Hidden Circle and two of those were dead.

  The Hidden Circle was too well hidden. Three weeks and Dodger had gleaned next to nothing. There had to be another way to track them down.

  A soft hand slid along his shoulder. He knew that touch, and it triggered a rush of memories he struggled to suppress. The past was the past.

  "No luck?" Teresa’s tone made the question a statement.

  Dodger didn’t bother to answer. She knew him well enough. Having seen his expression when she entered the room, she would have had her answer. He looked over his shoulder; she had come alone.

  "Pray, tell. Where is our chaperone?"

  "Chatterjee is downstairs."

  With a slim-fingered hand, she slid away the Fairlight cyberdeck and perched on the edge of the desk. Her slim hips spread slightly under the pressure, edging the hem of her skirt higher on her thigh. In his memory, he felt the exquisite smoothness of that graceful arch. His eyes traced the familiar curve
s up until he reached the equally familiar lop-sided smile of amusement. Her eyes sparkled.

  "Have something in mind?" she asked.

  He stood and reached out his hand to caress her cheek. Memory blurred with current perception as if there had been no gap. She slid from the desk and into his arms.

  "I thought that meat was a drag on the electron spirit."

  " ’Tis true."

  "I’ve missed you."

  "And I you."

  "Estios would not approve."

  "Estios can ..."

  She hushed him with a kiss. The moment seemed an eternity.

  "Dodger, why didn’t you stay?"

  "Why didn’t you come with me?"

  There were no words to say, for they had all been said before. He had no new answers that would mean anything. They held each other closely, entwining the rhythms of their hearts. Her voice was muffled by his shoulder.

  "Some things never change. They only fall apart when things around them change."

  "It need not be so."

  "Are you so sure?"

  "No." He wished that he were.

  "Neither am I. What’s to become of us, Dodger? I thought that I'd be able to work with you without remembering. I’m not as strong as I thought."

  "You have more strength than I."

  "Liar."

  "Is our fate to be the doomed lovers, then?"

  She hugged him harder instead of answering.

  "I would not compromise you with Estios," he said. "I would not let you."

  That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear.

  An unwelcome sound intruded on them; Chatterjee was coming down the hall. For an elf, he was making a lot of noise. Did he know?

  Teresa heard the other elf as well. She moved almost as quickly as Dodger. By the time Chatterjee walked through the archway, Dodger was back in his chair and Teresa was sitting demurely on the desk.