Shadowlands (9781101597637) Read online

  VIOLETTE MALAN

  SHADOWLANDS

  VIOLETTE MALAN—

  A bold new voice in fantasy

  from DAW Books:

  The Mirror Lands:

  THE MIRROR PRINCE

  SHADOWLANDS

  The Novels of Dhulyn and Parno:

  THE SLEEPING GOD

  THE SOLDIER KING

  THE STORM WITCH

  THE PATH OF THE SUN

  VIOLETTE MALAN

  SHADOWLANDS

  Copyright © 2012 by Violette Malan.

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-59763-7

  Cover art by Paul Young.

  Cover design by G-Force Design.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1596.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Book designed by Elizabeth Glover.

  All characters in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  First Printing, August 2012

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  For Paul

  Acknowledgments

  As always I want to first thank my editor and publisher, Sheila Gilbert, and thank my agent, Joshua Bilmes. Really, without them I wouldn’t need to thank anyone else. There are also people who work alongside them, however, who also need my thanks, people like Debra Euler, Josh Starr, and Marsha Jones at DAW. My thanks also go to my good friends Shari Cohen and Steven Serber, for lending me their house, and their neighborhood. And to Barb Wilson-Orange, for helping me again with my proofs. Thanks to Vaso Angelis who helped me out again, this time with some Greek phrasing; to Jerie Shaw who pointed me at Dr. Paul Ekman’s books; to Robin Gibbings for her advice on Australian mines (any errors are mine); and to Jim C. Hines for advice on a more delicate subject. Brian Baird of Computer Depot in Kingston helped me with the fix on the major tool of my trade. Thanks to Samantha Milks and her online book club, whose questions about The Mirror Prince helped me clarify some of my ideas for this book.

  Special thanks to the staff of Hair of the Dog Pub and Restaurant. If you’re in Toronto, stop by and enjoy yourself. I always do.

  Three people purchased the rights to have characters named after them at three entirely different silent auctions. The first is Jaiden Corey Wayne Mattice, by his parents, Corey Mattice and Teresa Lucas. I had to fiddle with the name a little to make it fit, and I hope Jade Enchanter likes the book when he gets old enough to read it. The second is Yves Crepeau, who I’m sure won’t mind being a bit of an Outsider. He’s not alone, however, as I’ve made Wai-kwong Wong an Outsider as well.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  About the Author

  Prologue

  THE SMELLS, SCENTS, AROMAS in the place humans called a bar were almost overwhelming, even when Foxblood was in his Rider form. There were food smells—though these weren’t so varied as the humans seemed to think—and the smells of perfumes, of sweat, of strange drugs, of sickness and decay, both from the foods and the humans themselves. He and his kind had learned to mask their own scents the same way, though these humans weren’t as sensitive even as Riders.

  There was so much dra’aj here, and soon, soon he would take some. For now, it was enough to know it was here waiting for him. He’d imposed control on his Pack, so he couldn’t relax it in himself. Part of him longed simply to herd all these humans into one place and hold them against a day of shortage. But it was too soon to think of doing such things. The risk was still too great. Not that humans could be much of a threat, but until he knew what the Riders were planning, until he knew where the Horn was, and who now held it, Fox and his Pack had to be patient, to watch and be wary.

  They could afford to wait. It wasn’t as if there would ever be any shortage. This pool of dra’aj was unspoiled, untapped. Even the Riders didn’t know about it. Not all humans had the same level of the vital energy, but there were billions of them. An unending resource. The Hunt could live off them forever.

  And human dra’aj was different. Less, perhaps, in each individual, but oh, what there was, was choice, tasty, and lasting. Fox looked at his hand, turning it over to study first the palm, then the back. It stayed a hand. That could never be done with the dra’aj of the People.

  It couldn’t hurt to taste a little now. Just a little. That one, that fair-haired woman with her strange blue Moonward eyes in her rosy Sunward face, that walked toward him now, stepping out of the path of the waitress. She would do.

  Fox reached out and grabbed the human by the wrist as she passed him by, spoke the words, drained her, and watched the hands of others reach out to help her as she stumbled and went down.

  Chapter One

  I LIKE SUBWAYS. The more crowded the better, as far as I’m concerned. Having all those people around mutes my awareness of them, makes it less acute, until all their psyches, their truths and untruths, their fears and worries and lies, just become so much white noise in the background of my mind. Like the sound of a freeway on the other side of a hill. It’s always there, but after a while, you don’t notice it anymore.

  Today there weren’t many people in the car with me, but fortunately any city large enough to have a subway, even Toronto, is populated enough to make me feel comfortable. That is, until the couple that got on at Broadview decided to sit down on the bench seat that was at ninety degrees to mine. She felt safer sitting close to another woman. They were avoiding the two teenagers who were doing their best to look hard as nails as they hovered around the door in their oversized clothing, their studs and plugs, and their tattoos. I’d brushed against them myself when I got on at Woodbine. [The taller one was worried that someone—his father?—had been acting strangely lately, quiet, distant, and apathetic, not at all like his usual raving drunken self; the shorter one was having an imaginary conversation with his girlfriend in which he was getting the upper hand. For once.]

  I shifted in my seat, but just enough that the woman’s knee stopped touching mine. I’d had to learn not to overreact to casual physical contact. We were crossing under the Bloor Viaduct and almost everyone in the car automatically looked out the window at the Don Valley, as if even the few minutes we’d spent in the tunnels had starved our eyes for greenery.

  I hadn’t moved far enough. The woman’s knee kept bump, bump, bumping against mine as the car swayed along the track, slowing as it entered Castlefrank Station. I shifted again, and focused my eyes on the hea
dline I could see across the aisle. I could have sworn it said “High Park Vampires Claim More Victims,” but that couldn’t be right. The National Post wouldn’t print something like that. Besides, there aren’t any vampires. Other things, maybe, but not vampires.

  Not even that distraction was doing much good. With direct contact any distance I had was gone and, white noise or no white noise, I learned more about the woman than I wanted to—and about her boyfriend too, since they were touching. Really strong emotion blanks out what I read, but the woman had been living with her worry long enough to get some distance on it, so I was getting good clear images, continuously, almost like watching a movie. She believed her boyfriend was having an affair, and she was honestly grieving. That’s rare. Most people would have been angry, and trying to figure out how they could turn their belief to their best advantage. You know. Revenge. Payback. A new living room suite.

  I could set their minds at rest, I thought, and the idea made me smile. I glanced at the subway map over the nearby set of doors. I probably shouldn’t. Oh, but I wanted to. Indecision made me grit my teeth. Sherbourne, and then the big station at Yonge and Bloor where the east/west line connected with the original north/south one. I was going past it, to the junction at St. George, to go south on the University line. The announcement came, that neutral female voice: “Arriving at Sherbourne. Sherbourne Station.” I stood up and took a good grip on the nearby pole.

  “He’s not cheating on you,” I said. I hitched the strap of my bag more firmly onto my shoulder as I stepped away. “He’s lost the money for your engagement ring and he’s working a part-time job to save it up.” I turned to the guy, as open-mouthed as the girl. “The money’s in the—” [running shoes?] I shook my head. “In a box, a blue box. Hall closet.”

  I moved quickly past the teenagers. I felt the whoosh of the doors as they slid shut behind me, but barely heard the noise of the train as it started moving again. That’s how loudly my heart was beating. I could feel my lips stretched out in a grin so big my teeth were drying, and I was closing down my face fast before I remembered that I didn’t have to worry about that kind of thing anymore. I didn’t have to control the expression on my face if I didn’t want to. I was buzzing with adrenaline, exhilarated and guilty at the same time, shifting my feet in what were almost dance steps. I’d done it. No one was going to be mad at me, and no one was going to punish me for reading someone I wasn’t asked to read.

  Hey, maybe I should have told the tall kid his father wasn’t ever going to be a problem for him again.

  I took a few steps farther away from the edge of the platform, but though I turned to face the train, my couple was already out of view. We’d been sitting in the front car, and the last car was just passing me as I turned. A man was standing at the door at the end of the car, a dark silhouette against the lights behind him. Suddenly all my half-guilty giggles were quenched and I was left shivering, icy cold. I caught a whiff of rotten meat, far stronger than the usual garbage bin smell you sometimes got from a subway tunnel. The man was leaning forward, pressing his face against the glass so hard his features distorted into a twisted rubber mask. He was still standing like that when the train disappeared into the tunnel.

  Suddenly my fear melted away as a rush of hot anger swept through me. I was done being frightened—been there, and not going back. Not for some squirrely guy on the subway, not for anybody. I actually took a step forward, my hands forming fists, even though the train was gone.

  He’d been trying to catch my scent. As stupid as that sounds, that’s exactly what he was doing. I realized that no one else around me had felt the cold, smelled the old meat. I squared my shoulders, but decided not to wait for the next train after all. I headed for the stairs, and the sunlight and taxis I would find on the street. Always have cab fare; that was something Alejandro had taught me in Madrid.

  As soon as I was up out of the tunnels I pulled my mobile from the outer pocket on my shoulder bag and hit the speed dial. “Soy yo,” I said when Alejandro answered, as if he wouldn’t know. “I just saw something odd on the subway.” I described the man I’d seen as well as I could. “He seemed to be trying to pick up my scent.” There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Stay where you are, I will come.”

  I smiled and rolled my eyes at the same time. He was bored, and I should have known he’d want to come to the rescue—again. Still, I hesitated, looking around me for the taxi rank.

  “We talked about this,” I reminded him. “I need to start doing stuff on my own. If it’s someone who works for the Collector,” I said, using my private term for the man who had taken me from my parents, “he might just have been trying to figure out what I am, without knowing it’s me.” I cleared my throat. “I got the feeling he was curious, not that he was tracking me.”

  “But if he sees me with you, and he does come from our friend, then he will know for certain who you are.” I knew Alejandro would understand. “Still, I do not like it. If he were entirely human, you would not have read so much from him.”

  “I’m getting into a cab now,” I said, as one pulled up in front of me. I tried to sound confident and secure, but maybe there was a little pleading in my voice. I needed to do this job alone, and he knew it.

  “Good luck, querida,” he said. “Call immediately if you should need me.”

  I used the taxi ride to push the subway man and his strange behavior to the back of my mind. I had to focus on the job I was heading for. By the time I got out in front of the glass-walled Christie Institute on University Avenue, I was calm again. I’d been able to check my hair and makeup in the cab, and changed out of the flats that were sensible subway wear into the Stuart Weitzman pumps that went better with my Nuovi Sarti suit. The flats went into a little felt pouch and joined two impressive looking folders in my shoulder bag.

  There was a security desk masquerading as an information kiosk across the spacious terrazzo floor of the lobby. I already had the room number I needed, but the uniformed guard “helped” me find the office by phoning up and making sure I was expected. The place was air-conditioned, but only just. Or maybe it wasn’t warm enough outside yet to make you really feel it. I’d been under the impression that this was a medical facility, but I was fast figuring out that it wasn’t the kind where patients had appointments.

  I was met at the elevator by an older blonde woman in a taupe slacks suit with a matching cami top and red, mid-heel, open-toed shoes, who showed me into an empty office and took my order for a glass of iced water with a slice of lemon.

  After waiting twenty minutes past the time of my appointment, an olive-skinned man with a nose almost as big as Alejandro’s came in. He stopped short in the doorway, seemed about to frown, and then came forward with his hand outstretched to take mine. His hair was black—real black—and still had some curl even though it was cropped short enough to show off his beautifully shaped head. His shirt looked like silk, and his suit cost at least twice what mine did.

  Alejandro had taught me a firm, short, handshake for business purposes, to minimize actual contact, but this time the images I got from the man were more fragmented than usual, and I held on for a second longer, concentrating to get everything I could. [A long life; the suit was made for him; someone named Harry was dying, but not of the disease the Institute researched; he knew about a lot of dying people.] At least here in North America I wasn’t expected to kiss people on both cheeks.

  “Good morning, Dr. Martin,” he said. “I’m Nikos Polihronidis, counsel for the Institute.” I’d expected something Mediterranean, but his accent was pure second-generation Greek Canadian. This wasn’t the Human Resources person who’d contacted me, and I wondered if I should be worried. He looked at me pretty narrowly, even though his dark eyes now twinkled a bit, as he took the chair behind the desk and glanced at the cleared surface with faint surprise. I wondered if I had better get another work outfit, especially if I had to come back here. This guy would know my suit if h
e saw it again.

  And he was worried, now that he was seeing me, about whether I could do the job.

  “I was expecting someone older.” He leaned back in his chair, right leg crossed over left, elbows propped comfortably on the armrests. “Though, of course, you come with impeccable recommendations.”

  I should have, considering all Alejandro’s work, and all the people he knew in high and useful places. I smiled as though I thought I’d been complimented. Alejandro had made me up to look older, literally painting an older woman’s face on top of mine. Even close up, all anyone could really tell was that I was wearing makeup. I lifted my left eyebrow, but kept the rest of my face neutral. “This isn’t your office,” I said. “You’d never have that print in here if it was. Your office is…something more traditional, but not conventional, if I had to guess.” As if I was guessing. “And I’d put money on a corner office. Your firm acts for the Institute, but you donate your time pro bono.”

  His smile made the temperature in the room drop; the twinkle completely disappeared from his eyes. I was relieved to find my hands steady, and my heart rate calm. Apparently I didn’t find him intimidating. Unlike the last person I worked for, Nikos Polihronidis couldn’t starve me, or lock me in a closet. Or take away my teddy bear.

  “I suppose that was a demonstration.”

  I tilted my head to the side. I certainly wasn’t going to explain. They’d wanted a psychological profiler, and according to my curriculum vitae, that’s exactly what they got.

  “Please don’t profile me again.” He looked at me in silence for several minutes, eyes narrowing once more. I imagined this was how he looked at clients when he was deciding whether to take them on.

  “How much were you told about this case?” he asked finally.