The Green Memory of Fear Page 5

  They were a dissonance, Davidson said, in a universe that strived toward harmony. A gathered bundle of negative energy moving outside the constraints of time. The longer they lived and fed, the more energy they could accrue, and the more energy they accrued, the longer they continued to live and feed.

  Davidson said their energy field appeared either as a space emptied of light or a dense greyness, but unless you knew that, you could stand next to one on the streets and notice nothing unusual beyond a slight but constant chill. An empath might sicken in their presence, or catch an odor of decaying flesh in their breath, said to be mildly toxic.

  If one fed off you once or twice the results would be nausea, flu-like aches and weakness, but if they kept feeding off you, you’d wither and die unless you became a Greenkeeper and fed off someone else. And only a Greenkeeper could transform someone who was not born to it, something they rarely did since they weren’t big on sharing.

  She speculated that perhaps there was actually only one original Greenkeeper, a mutation that never spread because it would not serve the human species well. That template may have made others in its early days, then seen the folly of overpopulating the planet with more like itself. And it might still be alive.

  Destroying any Greenkeeper was difficult at best since they could regenerate and heal wounds rapidly. If you shot a Greenkeeper once, odds were high you wouldn’t live long enough to get in a second shot, or to plunge your hand into his chest to rip his heart out, one of the best ways to kill them. They were, Davidson added by way of exquisite understatement, highly dangerous.

  That is, they were dangerous if they existed, which Davidson never admitted to believing. In fact, she stated frankly that there was no evidence backing any of the stories she’d collected. Nor, Alex thought, did any of it necessarily have anything to do with Dr. Senci, though Jaguar obviously suspected it might. Still, she had yet to say the magic words, Dr. Senci is a Greenkeeper, and she wouldn’t until she knew they were true. She was proceeding more slowly than usual, and he was glad of that.

  A knock on his door brought his attention away from his reading. “Come in,” he said, and the door opened to Rachel, who walked in and handed him a disk.

  “Senci,” she said. “Or actually, it’s about his victim. His psych evaluation. I couldn’t get it until we were officially on the case.”

  Alex slid the disc into his computer. Rachel stood behind his chair, looking over his shoulder. The file scrolled out the medical life of Daro Karas, born twelve years ago to an older couple in Toronto, through the aid of in vitro fertilization. His infancy was normal. His toddler-hood was normal. He’d had all his vaccinations, grew at the usual pace, got all his teeth in, and showed no signs of ill health. A fine and healthy male specimen.

  Then, at eleven, he started having nightmares, in a specific and repetitive form. They got so bad his parents took him to see his doctor, who recommended Dr. Senci.

  Alex knew all this. Then, something on line three caught his eye. He read, then twisted a scowling face to Rachel. “Hell. Did she know this?” he asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “She won’t get this until tomorrow, when she meets with the Provincial people. And it’s kind of buried so she might not catch it right away. I mean, that wording—metaphoric interpolations involve mythic creatures, etcetera. That’s why I brought it up. So you could let her know.”

  Alex leaned away from his computer. Another room to add to this house of horrors.

  The jargon of psychology translated into something quite simple. Daro dreamt, constantly and virulently, of vampires.

  Home Planet, Toronto, Canada

  “Thank you, child,” Dr. Senci said. “You did a good job for me.”

  The little girl shifted from one foot to the other. She wasn’t sure which was worse—when he was nice to her, or when he was angry. At least when he was angry she knew to stay away. When he was nice she didn’t know what to expect. “Can I go?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “There’s more for you to do. Come here.”

  He crooked a finger at her, drawing her toward the deep upholstered chair he sat in next to the fire. Of all his houses, she liked this one best. It had a fireplace, and she liked fire. When he wasn’t around, she’d burn things in it, watching flames lick at old books, at paper, at his shirts. Everything burned different, she learned. Each burning had its own look, its own smell and feel.

  Often he left the children alone, either here or at his house in New York. Sometimes she’d be in charge, and sometimes Peter would. She didn’t like that much. Peter was bossy. The oldest of the children and almost ready to transform, he liked to pretend he was Dr. Senci. If he got too bossy she’d kick him or gouge at his eyes, but he was bigger and hard to beat. Still, he was better than Dr. Senci, who never left her alone.

  She approached his chair slowly, reluctantly. When she was within reach he grabbed her by the neck, pulled her between his legs and held her pinioned.

  “You will be my eyes and ears. My little angel. You will draw her to us,” he crooned.

  “Leggo,” she said, pushing against him.

  “Not yet,” he said. “This is very important, and you must listen. Unless—perhaps you’ve changed your mind and you don’t want a mother?”

  She was still. He’d had her for three years and it took two of them for him to find her pressure point. She did not respond to violence or bribes, but one night he caught her mooning over one of her storybooks about princesses and fairy godmothers, and found out that more than anything, she wanted a mother. Not like her own mother, who sold her to him for a dose of latrinol. She wanted a real mother.

  “Do you want a mother, angel?” he asked.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said. “I don’t like it.”

  “I wouldn’t, if you’d tell me what your name is,” he said.

  She shook her head. Nobody knew her name. Nobody was going to, either, except maybe her real mother. He relaxed his legs, and she slipped out from between them, backed up quickly and stood just outside of his reach.

  “Come back here, my angel,” he cajoled.

  She stamped a small foot on the carpet. “Don’t call me that. I can’t be an angel because I’m not dead.”

  Dr. Senci didn’t laugh. He never laughed at her unless he had her pinned down so that she couldn’t bite or scratch because she’d do both. She was the youngest of his pack, and the most fierce. If she lived to adulthood she might become an interesting companion, or perhaps a good feed. Right now, she was a powerful and ill-tempered brat, very gifted in the empathic arts, but with no direction in her use of them.

  “Keep this up, and you will be. I’ll take you back to Manhattan and leave you there for the rats to eat.”

  She lifted her leg and kicked him hard, and when he reached for her, she bared her teeth to bite. He got hold of her wrists with one hand and dangled her in the air away from him while she wiggled and screeched. He dropped her and twisted her wrist.

  You’ll do what I say, or you’ll die.

  Suddenly, she ceased struggling. Leaned back on her haunches and relaxed.

  “I’m tired,” she whined. “I don’t want to.”

  Something like a sob caught in her throat. Dr. Senci brought his hand back and slapped her hard. She fell flat onto her back and lay there, water welling up in her eyes. That wasn’t good. Both the chemical combination of salt water and the specific energy in the emotion of sorrow were physically painful to him and he tolerated no pain. No interference with his pleasure.

  No crying. Don’t play with me or I’ll fuck you until you’re dead.

  Her face tightened into stillness.

  “Get up,” he said out loud. “And come over here.”

  She rubbed at her cheek and did as she was told in sullen silence.

  He pulled her into his lap. “If you want a mother, you must do this, tired or not. I’ll help you get ready.” He held her shoulders and felt her sigh as she settled into the work at hand.<
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  He’d never taught her how to leave her body. She already knew how, and used it to escape him the first time he tried to sex her. Just as he was ready to take her she went flying out from herself and across the room. When he grabbed for her she threatened to go out the window and into a flock of white birds that flew overhead.

  Pigeons. She would fly with pigeons rather than be with him. He found that insulting, considering the situation he’d rescued her from—a wastrel child with no future, living with her addict mother and a group of dying druggies. When he bought her she was filthy and malnourished, but good food and adequate shelter soon brought her back to health and a bounding energy. Then the ungrateful wretch left her body every time he tried to sex her. Finally he decided to use her skills in ways that suited him.

  She became his messenger. His little angel. He taught her how to direct her travels over greater distances, and now she could appear as a ghostlike figure wherever he sent her. If all went as he planned she’d help bring him the woman they both sought, but she made such a fuss about it he’d almost made up his mind to kill her once she’d gotten him what he wanted. She had limited usefulness, and apparently unlimited trouble in her.

  Sometimes he killed the children at the moment they expected to be transformed, slashing their throats and letting their blood pour into his hands before he fed. He’d make the other children watch. It increased their respect and let him drink their fear, allowing him to experience the terror of death the only way he could—vicariously.

  Perhaps this little girl who bit would give him that thrill someday. Now she had work to do for him. He pressed a hand against her forehead, felt her readiness to begin.

  “There, my little angel,” he said. “Go out and play. The Jaguar is waiting to see you.”

  Chapter 5

  Home Planet—Toronto, Canada

  Jaguar’s hotel was outside the city, in an area called Scarborough, cynically referred to as Scarberia because of the empty malls that made jagged scars along the road. From her 11th story room she could scan the carcasses of abandoned consumerism scattered at her feet.

  When she was done paying her respects in that quarter she turned to her telecom and punched in the code she knew best. She waited, and then smiled when Alex’s angular face appeared on screen. They’d traded messages back and forth since her arrival but they hadn’t actually managed to speak. He hadn’t made empathic contact, but in the moments before she fell asleep she had a distinct sense of his presence. Just a kiss at the back of her neck, and then a departure.

  “Miss me?” she asked lightly.

  He turned a hand over, inclined his head, gestures which said of course, and since when was that news. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Interesting. I’m spending time with Daro.”

  “And what do you say about him?”

  “Maxxed out PTSD. Other than that, he’s a great kid. Parents conservative, wealthy, keeping up appearances. Pure Toronto.”

  “Mm-hm. Did they confirm that Daro’s nightmares were about vampires?”

  She missed a beat. “You know about that?”

  He turned a hand over, inclined his head. Same gesture. Same meaning. Of course he knew. “Learn anything else?” he asked.

  She shifted in her seat, then closed her eyes and leaned back. Her thoughts ran into his. Just feelings. Something old and cold and empty. An absence of heart. A dank grey nothing.

  “Like that,” she said, opening her eyes. “It’s very . . . “ she let the sentence dissipate.

  He leaned in and looked at her eyes. The small lines around them, the circles underneath. Shadows moved through the green and gold of her iris, taking the light out of them.

  “Have you been in empathic contact with Daro?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  He looked harder. Whatever he’d seen was gone, like a shadow that shifted and left the day clear. “Don’t. Not yet. Did you interview Senci yet?”

  “Later today,” she said.

  “Maybe you should delay that,” he suggested,

  “Is that the Adept speaking?” she asked.

  He shook his head. He wasn’t sure. The Adept, or the man who pointed his scissors down when he ran. The man who was courting her. “Just be careful. Make no contact, and don’t try any of your tricks. That’s an order from your Supervisor.”

  Her mouth curled into a smile. “Since when has that ever worked?”

  “Never. But it’s all I’ve got, so I use it.”

  “No, Alex,” she contradicted. “You’ve got plenty you could use. You’re just too much of a gentleman to do so. And I appreciate that.”

  She signed off, watching his face disappear into darkened screen.

  When he was gone, she rubbed at her temples. She needed more sleep. She was waking repeatedly from disjointed dreams. Alex was in them, and her knife, and ugly laughter, but she couldn’t remember anything else. She breathed in and out. Then she stood, and prepared to leave.

  * * * *

  Riding the glass elevator down from her room to the lobby, Jaguar could see the Maggie—local name for the electromag subway line—curving against the outlines of the city like a silver vein. The tall glass buildings changed shades as the sun shifted in the sky. At night the lights of the city flickered at her feet while she rode down the side of the moon toward earth.

  Jaguar liked to watch the city rise to meet her, as if she commanded this movement. It gave her the illusion that she had some control. But this Toronto was not her Planetoid Toronto, and nobody named Alex, nobody who was her friend, lived here. Instead, she rode the Maggie with people who wore subdued suits and worked hand-held computers. They were silent, and their eyes stayed put.

  Toronto was hit hard by the Serials. It only appeared to have less trouble than New York or L.A. because they were so efficient at clearing away bodies. Some commentators said they lost more people than L.A., but were too determinedly polite to talk about it.

  It was a city filled with clean light, catching sun in the glass and chrome spires of its buildings, and she didn’t fit in at all. Twice on the Maggie people had changed seats to move away from her. They sensed her presence as a foreign substance, filled with sharp edges that frayed their smooth surfaces.

  She kept her clothes to the most subdued and tailored she could find in her closet. She kept her hair knotted at her neck. She discarded the feathers she liked to wear, but the people who lived here knew she was a different energy among them. No matter how you dressed her up, she still smelled like Planetoid. Either that, or the mint she always carried with her.

  As she rode downtown she reached into her jacket pocket and rubbed some between finger and thumb. The sweet sharp scent of mint, reminding her she was alive. She might need that. She was going to interview Senci.

  The electromag stopped under the courthouse, and she ascended to it. Senci was out on bail, but he was required to wear a tracking implant, and to make himself available for any interviews the authorities wanted. The courts provided her with a room and a guard, even a laser fence between them, for her interviews.

  A woman in uniform whose round face matched her round figure sat at the front desk, staring at a computer. “May I help you?” she asked without looking away from it.

  Jaguar showed her papers. “Here to interview Dr. Senci.”

  The woman glanced briefly at them, then looked again a little harder. She lifted her head up and took a good stare at Jaguar. “Planetoid?” she asked.

  “Like it says,” she admitted.

  The woman wrinkled her nose, then chewed on her lip. “I’m thinking of leaving here. What’s it like up there?”

  “Different,” Jaguar said. “Very different.”

  The woman asked no further questions. She called to a guard, who led her down the hall and up a flight of stone steps to a featureless grey interview room. The guard seated her at a table where the laser fence was up and humming. Under normal circumstances, she would have insisted on working
without it. Today, she was glad it was there.

  Not many minutes passed before the door opened and Senci stepped inside. She blinked hard because she couldn’t see him clearly. He seemed to dissolve, to fall into the air as if he was part of it. It took her a long moment to realize she was seeing his energy field, a dense grey. She shifted her focus as he sat at the table across from her, working hard to keep him in her eyes because he had a tendency to disappear into the grey of the walls.

  He smiled, at ease and unafraid. His sharp blue eyes were focused and keenly aware of his surroundings. “Hello, Jaguar,” he said.

  He knew her name. Had his lawyer told him? Probably. But his voice. Something in his voice. As he spoke her ears were ringing and light ringed her pupils. She gathered herself together and spoke. “You know my name. Do you know why I’m here?”

  His answer came subvocally, a shock within her.

  I know why you think you’re here Jaguar I know more than that Jaguar I know I know do you?

  She couldn’t see him through the cloud of dense grey around him, and her ears were ringing. She turned her face down to the file resting on the table. Better. That was better.

  “I’m here to conduct a standard interview for Planetoid records,” she said, keeping her voice official, professional, keeping her eyes off his face. “There’s a series of questions we routinely ask, so I’ll ask them, and you’ll answer. Or, you can choose not to answer, and I’ll mark that down. Ready?”

  She raised her face to his, caught a glimpse of it before it was swallowed in cloud.

  Do you know what I am Jaguar Jaguar Jaguar do you?

  She looked away again. He was definitely a hypnopath, and a good one. But she could deal with that. Good blocking techniques and a refusal of their tricks worked just fine with them. She referred to the file. “Have you ever been abused, sexually or physically?” she asked.