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She seems to understand the implication and smiles welcomingly. "I want to
stress that working for us could be a very sweet deal, indeed. Perhaps this
other person you are working for& " She delicately pauses, as though to search
for the appropriately inoffensive word. "Neglects you, though perhaps not of
his own free will. Perhaps you could consider yourself on loan to us, until
your employer can see to your education himself."
It is a very polite way of talking around my father.
"Knowing what I am, you still offer to teach me?"
She smiles and bows deeply. "I do."
I have been so enchanted by this avatar that it only now occurs to me to ask,
"Who are you?"
"I am a licensed representative of the Toyama business group.
In seconds I have read seventeen newspaper articles about Kioshi Toyama and
his alleged ties to the Yakuza. They inform me that rival gangs currently
consider Toyama's bakuto organization top dog. It seems I have found the
Dragon's people on my first try.
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"Tell Toyama that Page ibn Mouse will consider his offer."
Chapter 25 Morningstar, the Adversary
They say rock and roll is Satan's tongue. I couldn't disagree more. Though I
loved the chaos of a midnight rave, I wished I'd brought earplugs.
The party clogged the pedestrian traffic on skyway level seventy-four. Some
surfer had redirected the advertising holos in the tube's walls so that,
instead of personalized ads, they all pumped in the video and sound of a
Japanese thrash polka band, live no doubt, somewhere in the world. Azazel
handed me a plastic glass of something a foul green color, smelling strongly
of alcohol. I held on to it, but didn't drink.
"The Four Horsemen," he said, shouting to be heard over the pounding bass
guitar. In his black wool and leather, he fit right in with the majority of
the crowd. I, unfortunately, looked like some of the dazed commuters who'd
stumbled into the "hit-and-run" by accident. A hit-and-run was a kind of rave
that was always on the move. They would set up the party in spontaneous, often
public spaces, like here in the traffic tunnel or on a crowded subway
platform. The idea, the excitement of a hit-and-run, was to be overt and only
one step ahead of the cops.
Bodies danced all around us in a loose circle. In the center, a group of
buskers and amateur musicians had set up their instruments to play along
impromptu-style with the Four Horsemen a kind of an instrumental karaoke. The
tunnel's main power had been shut down, so everything was bathed in the soft
glow of the emergency lights and the flickering images of the band's video.
"Pretty cool, huh?"
Azazel and I leaned up against a piece of public art, at the very edge of the
pulsing mob. Hit-and-runs had become very popular. It seemed the more people
cut themselves off from their neighborhoods, the more they sought out the
company of strangers. They wanted to be a part of something bigger, unique,
and personal. Many people worked away from the office, via the LINK, but they
did it from the corner coffee shop, rather than their homes. Humans, like
dogs, preferred to run in each other's company.
I took a cautious sip of the alcohol. It tasted as horrible as it looked, and
seemed to be a mixture of a little bit of whatever was handy, heavy on
peppermint schnapps. Above us, on the ceiling of the pedestrian tunnel, a
countdown flashed.
I pointed to it with the plastic cup. "What's that?"
"When the cops are expected to show," Azazel said.
There wasn't much time left on the clock. I frowned. "So, the party's over in
fifteen minutes?"
"Nah," he said. "It's a game of chicken. Most people stay just to prove
they're not afraid of being arrested."
The smile on Azazel's face told me that he'd played that game before. I
snorted. "You need a life."
He bristled, standing up straighter. "Hey, in some circles, it's a badge of
honor to have a Horsemen's hit-and-run on your rap sheet."
I set my cup of garbage alcohol in the hollow of a public art statue. I'd seen
enough. This was no sign of the apocalypse. As usual, the Fallen had failed
me. I was less than half a block away, with Azazel shouting at my heels, when
I heard it: a pure, amplified note on a cello. As the bow drew across the
strings, I felt that warm richness in the pit of my stomach that comes only
when in the presence of a musical master. Everything else fell away. The
thrash guitar and drums faded into the perfectly haunting sound of the
strings. The crowd felt it, too. From my new distance, I could see their
bodies moving differently, more slowly, reverently, worshipfully, and in awe.
Music has a power over the human psyche that I have never been able to master.
Folktales abound in which I am portrayed as a fiddler, but I'm no musician. I
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think that people see the Devil in music because there is an intense
seduction, sensuality, and danger inherent in it, qualities usually given to
me. Music, like love, like a devil can make a human do crazy, sinful things.
The Four Horsemen no, this woman, this cellist had that kind of power; had it
by the balls.
The camera zoomed in on her face, or rather what could be seen of it under a
mountain of hair. Her eyes were hidden in the shadows, but the light fell on
her mouth, open in ecstasy. She was naked, covered only by the velvety smooth
wood of the cello, and her legs wrapped around the instrument like a lover.
I wanted to be that cello and be played by her hands. The crowd wanted it,
too, men and women alike, as did Azazel, a former angel in God's army. This
woman was good.
A line of cops in riot gear chose that moment to rush past us, toward the
crowd. We were far enough away to be considered out of range of arrest, but
close enough to witness every gory detail. Fist and baton flashed in the
strobe light. Blood spattered against the video image of the cellist. I felt
my own rage begin to boil. I wanted to protect her, protect the music. Without
realizing it, I'd taken two steps forward before a heavy hand rested on my
shoulder.
"Best stay out of it, son," the cop said.
Azazel took my hand. With a smile, he said, "You see the insanity she causes?
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