Part 9 (1/2)

”Then rid yourself of me. Take up the coin, and I will rejoin the rest of myself, whole again. You will be well rid of me.”

I snorted. ”Yeah. Up until Big Sister gets into my head, turns me into her psychotic boy toy, and I wind up a monster like the rest of the Denarians.”

Lasciel, the fallen angel whose full being was currently bound in an old Roman denarius in my bas.e.m.e.nt, held up a mollifying hand, ”Have I not given you sufficient s.p.a.ce? Have I not done as you asked, remained silent and still? When is the last time I have intruded, the last time we spoke, my host?”

I hit a bad chord, grimaced, and muted it out. Then I started over. ”New Mexico. And that wasn't by choice.”

”Of course it was,” she said. ”It is always your choice.”

I shook my head. ”I don't speak ghoul. As far as I know, no one does.”

”None of you have ever lived in ancient Sumeria,” Lasciel said.

I ignored her. ”I had to have answers from the ghoul to get those kids back. There was no time for anything else. You were a last resort.”

”And tonight?” she asked. ”Am I a last resort tonight?”

The next couple of chords came out hard and loud. ”It's Thomas.”

She folded her hands in her lap and regarded one of the nearby candles. ”Ah, yes,” she said, more quietly. ”You care for him a great deal.”

”He's my blood,” I said.

”Allow me to rephrase the observation. You care for him to an irrational degree.” She tilted her head and studied me. ”Why?”

I spoke in a slower voice. ”He's my blood.” blood.”

”I understand your words, but they don't mean anything.”

”They wouldn't,” I said. ”Not to you.”

She frowned at that and looked at me, her expression mildly disturbed. ”I see.”

”No,” I said. ”You don't. You can't.”

Her expression became remote and blank, her gaze returning to the candle. ”Do not be too sure, my host. I, too, had brothers and sisters. Once upon a time.”

I stared at her for a second. G.o.d, she sounded sincere. She isn't, Harry, I told myself. She's a liar. She's running a con on you to convince you to like her, or at least trust her. From there, it would be a short commute to the recruiter's office of the Legion of Doom.

I reminded myself very firmly that what the fallen angel offered me-knowledge, power, companions.h.i.+p-would come at too high a price. It was foolish of me to keep falling back on her help, even though what she had done for me had undoubtedly saved both my life and that of many others. I reminded myself that too much dependence upon her would be a Very, Very Bad Thing.

But she still looked sad.

I concentrated on my music for a moment. It was hard not to experience the occasional fit of empathy for her. The trick was to make sure that I never forgot her true goal-seduction, corruption, the subversion of my free will. The only way to prevent that was to be sure to guard my decisions and actions with detached reason rather than letting my emotions get the better of me. If that happened, it would be easy to play right into the true Lasciel's hands.

h.e.l.l, it'd probably be fun.

I shook off that thought and lumbered through ”Every Breath You Take” by the Police and an acoustic version of ”I Will Survive” I'd put together myself. After I finished that, I tried to go through a little piece I'd written that was supposed to sound like cla.s.sic Spanish guitar while giving me a little exercise therapy on the mostly numb fingers of my left hand. I'd played it a thousand times, and while I had improved, it was still something painful to listen to.

Except this time.

This time, I realized halfway in, I was playing flawlessly. I was playing faster than my usual tempo, throwing in a few licks, vibrato, some nifty transitional phrases-and it sounded good. Like, Santana good.

I finished the song and then looked up at Lasciel.

She was watching me steadily.

”Illusion?” I asked her.

She gave a small shake of her head. ”I was merely helping. I... can't write original music anymore. I haven't made any music in ages. I just... helped the music you heard in your thoughts get out through your fingers. I circ.u.mvented some of the damaged nerves. It was all you, otherwise, my host.”

Which was just about the coolest thing Lasciel'd ever done for me. Don't get me wrong; the survival-oriented things were super-but this was playing guitar. She had helped me to create something of beauty, and it satisfied an urge in me so deep-set and vital that I had never really realized what it was. Somehow, I knew without a hint of a doubt that I would never be able to play that well on my own. Ever again.

Could evil, true capital-E Evil, do such a thing? Help create something whole and lovely and precious?

Careful, Harry. Careful.

”This isn't helping either of us,” I said quietly. ”Thank you, but I'm learning it myself. I'll get there on my own.” I set the guitar down on its little stand. ”Besides, there's work to be done.”

She nodded once. ”Very well. This is regarding Thomas's apartment and its contents?”

”Yes,” I said. ”Can you show them to me?”

Lasciel lifted a hand, and the wall opposite the fireplace changed.

Technically, it hadn't actually changed, but Lasciel, who existed only as an ent.i.ty of thought hanging around in my head, was able to create illusions of startling, even daunting clarity, even if I was the only one who could perceive them. She could sense the physical world through me-and she carried aeons of knowledge and experience. Her memory and eye for detail were almost entirely flawless.

So she created the illusion of the wall of Thomas's war room and put it over my own wall. It was even lit the same way as in my brother's apartment, every detail, I knew, entirely faithful to what had seen earlier that night.

I padded over to the wall and started checking it out more thoroughly. My brother's handwriting was all but unreadable, which made the notes he'd scribbled of dubious value in terms of actually enlightening me as to what was going on.

”My host-” Lasciel began.

I held up a hand for silence. ”Not yet. Let me look at it unprejudiced first. Then you tell me what you think.”

”As you wish.”

I went over the stuff there for an hour or so, frowning. I had to go check a calendar a couple of times. I got out a notebook and scribbled things down as I worked them out. ”All right,” I said quietly, settling back down on the sofa. ”Thomas was following several people. The dead women and at least a dozen more, in different parts of the city. He had a running surveillance on them. I think he probably hired a private detective or two to cover some of the observation-keeping tabs on where people were going, figuring out the recurring events in their schedules.” I held up the notebook. ”These are the names of the folks he was”-I shrugged-”stalking, I suppose. My guess is that the other people on this list are among the missing folk the ladies of the Ordo Lebes told us about.”

”Think you Thomas preyed upon them?” Lasciel asked.

I started to deny it, instantly and firmly, but stopped.

Reason. Judgment. Rational thought.

”He could have,” I said quietly. ”But my instincts say it isn't isn't him.” him.”