block down, he saw a pack of teenage corporates hanging out in their pseudo-tough leathers, studs, and chrome. No doubt they were sprawling for the thrill of it. They were faint shadows of the predators who would appear once the kids had gone home. ft was too early in the evening for the night life to come crawling out, though the signs of their presence were clear in the burn marks and bullet holes that scarred the buildings.
The predators might not be out, but the scavengers were getting an early start. An old man was moving along the opposite sidewalk, poking through the trash and debris that passing traffic had swept against the building walls. The man's bent frame was covered in a battered U.S. army field jacket whose usual markings had been replaced with crude patches bearing colorful symbols. Once the scrounger looked Sam's way, letting Sam see the hawk nose and pointed chin that dominated the man's craggy, lined face beneath the bartered, broad-brimmed reservation hat. Sam was startled to see that the junk-picker was an Indian, but then he told himself that even Indian society must have its failures.
Then he realized that his reaction was not for the fact that the old man was an Indian, but because he looked familiar. Sam crossed the street and walked past him, trying to get another surreptitious look at the old face, but the scavenger was too busy bending over a particularly noisome pile of trash.
Sam reviewed his glimpse of the man's features. Where had he seen that face before? He watched the bum sidle toward him, then on down the street. As the old man passed, he gave no sign of attention or intent. It struck Sam that the scavenger's features resembled those of his temporary landlord, which was possible. The coat gave the shambling junk-picker an almost unrecognizable shape, and the shuffling walk would disguise a person's normal gait. His old coot of a landlord had a shifty gaze, and seemed to be paying an unreasonable amount of attention to Sam's comings and goings. A cheap disguise might suit such an amateur spy.
But if a spy, for whom? His nightmares? Sam began to fear that paranoia was overtaking him. His landlord might be watching him, but the man didn't have the initiative to follow a tenant. He would sell any information he could, but he wouldn't bestir himself to seek it out. And the scavenger was just an old bum, maybe even a survivor of the reeducation camps. If so, he deserved Sam's sympathy and pity more than his suspicion. Still, Sam was glad he was carrying all his important goods with him. One couldn't be too careful in a strange city. The landlord might not follow tenants to spy on them, but Sam didn't think him above entering an apartment and helping himself to anything lying around loose.
Sam shook his head sadly. Such suspicion of people who had done nothing to deserve it wasn't like him, or so he had once thought. How much he had changed since leaving Renraku. Some of the differences were good. He felt stronger and more capable than ever before and was in better shape, too. But he had grown cynical and continued to do things he would never even have contemplated as little as two years ago. Here he was, a shadowrunning shaman searching for thd Ghost Dance Prophet. He wondered what his father would, have thought of that. He knew what his mother would have thought. She'd have been horrified. Sometimes Sam thought that was the proper reaction.
Perhaps he was just tired, worn down by lack of sleep or maybe just frustration. He seemed no closer to finding out what had happened to Howling Coyote than when he had arrived in Denver. Tonight's meeting didn't look hopeful. The runner he was to meet had done some work for the Sovereign Tribal Council while Coleman was president, but that was nearly fifteen years ago. It was a slim connection at best, not much likely to produce a lead, but he had to try. He had gone through almost all the possibilities Dodger had dug up. No one he'd met would so much as talk about Howling Coyote, not even for a price. Was it some kind of conspiracy to hide the man, or what had happened to him?
Paranoia again. But paranoia was a survival trait in the shadows. Or was it just the first step into madness? Maybe all his fears that his magic was tied to madness were based in fact. There were enough mad things in his life. Like those dreams. Even with his eyes wide open, awake rather than asleep, he could almost hear the baying of the nightmare pursuer. So why did his scalp itch?
Sam looked the street over. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The scavenger had gone to ground somewhere, and the crowd's composition was beginning to shift. The sprawling kids had gone, mere leaves blown away before the rising wind of night. A trio of razor-guys in gang colors now occupied one of the tenement
Nothing seemed out of place, yet Sam sensed that something was wrong. He was safely out of the traffic flow, so he leaned back against the wall and shifted his perception to the astral.
What had been hidden from his mundane sight now came clear. Across the street, stalking among the evening sidewalk traffic, a tall, gangly figure moved like a nightmare scarecrow. The being had pointed ears and slanted eyes that blazed with a golden light against his dark skin. Though much like an elf, this being seemed subtly different. Sam felt a strong sense of power fueling the illusion spell in which the elven scarecrow was wrapped.
Flickering astral presences danced around the dark stranger like electrons around a nucleus. When one broke off its orbit to flutter and bounce before its master's face, Sam knew he had been spotted. The apparition turned its attention to him.
Sam didn't think he could outdistance the scarecrow's long legs, and wasn't prepared to bet he could out- magic the well of power he sensed. He needed help, but he was alone in this city. The city!
Desperately he searched, calling as he focused his power. He stretched his own abilities, seeking a response from the etheric world around him. There were immediate stirrings, but a coherent response took shape only slowly. Or so it seemed to his shifted perceptions. In the mundane world, the scarecrow had covered but half the block that separated him from Sam.
'Come,' he called silently, urgently. 'Born of the streets, hear me. Soul in the bones of the buildings, answer my summons.'
An unwonted clarity in Sam's view of the concrete, stone, and plastics of the environment told him he had been heard. Though Denver wasn't Sam's city, the presence acknowledged him, recognizing his authority as a Dog shaman and therefore a master of the spirits of Man. Still, it was little inclined to do anything for him. Sam asked service of it, demanding that it wrap its essence around the scarecrow and enfold him so that Sam might escape. It yielded to his insistence, and the rush of fresh air that accompanied the spirit's departure to do Sam's bidding held the tang of its assent.
Half a block away, the scarecrow was suddenly stopped in his tracks by a collision with another pedestrian, a dwarf. Both hit the ground. The woman immediately picked herself up and loudly cursed the shoddy state of sidewalk repair. The bewildered scarecrow sat with a shocked look on his face, then let out a howl when another passerby trod on his hand as though he wasn't there. This was followed immediately by a passing dog that seemed to think the seated stranger was a fire hydrant. Raising a leg, the dog marked him. The dark man struck out and the dog skipped away, then lit out as though seeing a ghost.
Good idea. Sam, too, started down the street at a run. People moving toward him saw him coming and got out of his way. He dodged around those going in his own direction. Behind him he could hear the scarecrow's angry shouts, as he tried to force his way through pedestrian traffic that didn't seem to know he was there. While many voices exclaimed in surprise and pain, only the dark man's voice was full of anger. The people he jostled seemed to blame the collisions on their own clumsiness, or on some unseen piece of trash or unnoticed unevenness in the sidewalk. To them, the scarecrow was not there. The gap between Sam and his pursuer widened. Satisfied that the steady stream of rush-hour traffic on West Colfax Avenue would prove a major barrier to the spirit-ridden scarecrow, Sam cut around a corner into an alley. All the doleful singers of nearly two centuries had failed to imagine how completely a city could alienate a person from those around him. His relief died as he skidded to a stop. Four silhouettes blocked his way. A hint of chrome gleamed among night-dark leathers. Razorguys. Two were hulking brutes in long coats with upturned collars and slouch hats that concealed all pertinent information about them. Bulges under their clothing suggested armor, enhancements, and weapons. They were too big to be orks and not broad enough to be trolls. The third was slender as a whip and wore his leathers tight to emphasize his build. His eyes sparkled with chrome reflections as he took three steps to Sam's left. The group was spread out enough now that he couldn't watch them all closely without turning his head. The fourth moved from behind the brute on the right, and the glow from newly wakening street lamps revealed that he was not an enhanced bullyboy like the others. What Sam had at first taken for a synthleather duster like the big boys wore was really a fine woolen topcoat of stylish cut. His slouch hat was festooned with magical symbols. Eyes and teeth shone hi an entirely natural way from his brown face.
'Wrong turn, chummer. For you, that is. For us, a fortunate turn that should save us significant effort. You have something we want. There'll be no trouble if you're bright about it.'
