Retrievers - Burning Bridges Part 17

"Yeah, " Wren said, but more in sadness than agreement. She sat back down on the sofa and drew her feet up underneath her, resting her chin on her hands and staring out the window, even though there was nothing out there anymore except snow. "It will teach them that we're dangerous. We're deadly. We're even more to be feared than the animals they already thought we were." Even without the Truce Board to back them up and direct them.

"That's a bad thing?" P.B. clearly didn't think so. Rather than sitting down, he paced the perimeter of the room, restlessly touching objects, as though rea.s.suring himself. His paws, rather than being clumsy, were remarkably agile, and Wren thought, not for the first time, that whoever had first created the demon breed had made certain they would be tool-using creatures.

"Bad?" she said in response. "No. Not bad. They saved lives here, now, by being deadly." She had nothing against violence, as a tool. "But where does it stop? Where do we draw the line, and go home?"

"When they're all gone." P.B. was definite on that. Wren wished she could be so sure. Working with Sergei had taught her that you had to look at the smaller picture within the larger one; always calculate the repercussions before you acted. Otherwise, one simple ripple could come back as a tsunami.

Nothing was simple. Especially the things that, on the surface, looked simple.

"It's not enough to stop them." She tilted her head back to watch him. "They're like ants, these bigots. We need to find their source, their funding. That's what the Truce was supposed to do."

"Truce is broken." He gave up on wandering, to the relief of her aching neck, and sat on the love seat opposite her.

"Yeah. But who broke it?"

He didn't know. She didn't know. But she knew someone who might have the resources to find out. Only problem was, she'd thrown away her right to call on them for anything.

Fifteen.

"No, no, you did the right thing. The Patrol handled it."

It was probably the first time Wren had ever heard Bart being consoling. It was...unnerving, was the best word for it, she decided. He was far better at being bracingly abrasive. Even the fact that he was supporting her take on the situation didn't make it sound any better.

Wren wasn't sure if P.B. really resented not being able to get a claw into the fight, or if he was feeling guilty that he hadn't really wanted to get involved and so was talking loud to get over it. He could have shaken her off, easy-but in the process might have broken her arm. More guilt, if he did that. Some days she really did feel sorry for the demon. He just couldn't win.

They were sitting in Bart's apartment, huddled over mugs of coffee so strong Wren was surprised her hair hadn't spontaneously curled. The Manhattan representative looked like c.r.a.p: his beard was unshaven, his eyes heavy-lidded and red-lined, and his posture more like a question mark. In short, he looked like a stretch of bad road after an ugly storm, and she would have guessed a wild round of drinking with sailors on leave, if she didn't know for a fact that he had been doing damage control up at Truce Central until daybreak.

Jesus wept, and wept again. Was it really only four days since the angel was killed? She blinked, calculated the hours. It was.

P.B. was still arguing. "I thought the point was to get involved?"

"If the Patrol hadn't been there, you would have been. That's involved. But letting them handle it...gives them purpose. Shows the rest of the Cosa that even if the Truce has been unofficially broken, we're still working together."

Wren raised an eyebrow at that. "Unofficially?"

Bart sighed, leaning back on the overstuffed plaid sofa and resting his arms along the back in a pose that might have been relaxed except for the tension practically humming off his sinews. "Yah. The Council swears that they had nothing to do with the angel's death, that they have not, in fact, had any contact of any sort with any non- Cosa group since the Truce went into effect, and that they are as outraged and sickened as we are. That's a direct quote, by the way. Makes me wonder if spinmeistering's an undoc.u.mented Talent."

"Just a Human one, " Wren said. P.B. came out of his funk long enough to riposte. "Don't overestimate your species. If it breathes, it Spins. Except demons."

She was never able to resist the lure. 'What, you're more n.o.ble?"

"No, just fewer and a lot less involved. We stopped caring what other species thought a couple-three generations ago." He shrugged, dismissing the entire discussion. "Tough to spin the truth when everyone was either there, or doesn't care, anyway."

In the past twenty-four hours, Wren had learned more about demon than she'd ever known before. She might now, in fact, be the reigning expert in the Cosa on the subject. Pity there was no real call for an expert on the topic. Not exactly the sort of thing that popped up on Jeopardy or Trivial Pursuit, either.

Her brain felt like it had been rolled in sand and left to bake on the beach for too long, and her eyes were just as gritty. I'm not thinking straight anymore.

She and P.B. had spent the entire night-after giving up on any thoughts of sleep-sitting in an all-night coffee shop, replacing adrenaline shakes with caffeine ones, trying to trace back everything they had done, seen, and said, since the very beginning of all this, starting when P.B. first encountered the vigilantes on the street, and Wren called the "pest exterminators" number on the flyer she had been given.

"Do you think we caused this?" Wren had asked at one point, coming to the thing that was digging at her. "By not ignoring it? Because that's what we've always done-put our heads down and worked around it, and eventually they give up and go away or something else distracts them, or..."

"Or a lot of Talent die under stones, or in fire, or by gunshot or drowning or ga.s.sing..."

"Right. I guess ostriching's not so effective."

"It can be." P.B.'s dark red eyes got even darker for a moment, as though shadows were moving behind them. "You said it yourself. A lot of times the threat gets bored and goes away. Victims aren't fun when they stop squealing, or don't have anything more to give...."

Wren blinked at him, her too-tired brain latching onto his words in a way they wouldn't have if she'd been thinking clearly.

"That's an angle we haven't looked at, have we?"

"What, squealing?"

"No...advantage. It's been all about bigotry and intolerance and yadda yadda discrimination against us, woe is us. But what if it's even more basic than that?"

"Cui bono?"

"Huh?"

"Who will profit?" he clarified.

"Right. Who comes out ahead, if we're gone, or torn apart?"

"The Council." Then P.B. stopped, frowned, and said the same thing that Wren had been thinking. "Except they wouldn't, because suspicion would naturally fall on them, because it's so obvious...everything about this has obviously pointed to them, even the fact of one of the angeli being killed to break the Truce, because only a Talent could do that, right? We've been trained from the first steps to be suspicious of them, and them of us."

"So."

"So, " he echoed.

At that point, they had paid their bill, and hotfooted it over to Bart's. Not only was he the closest in terms of location-Wren wasn't even sure where the other Quad representatives lived, actually-but he was good at poking holes in other people's theories.

"So, " Bart said to them now, living up to her expectations. "It's an interesting theory, and I'm as much a fan of a good conspiracy theory as anyone-but it's sort of limited by the fact that there isn't anyone out there who would really profit by us eating each other, as it were."

"The government?" It was the first thing she could think of.

Bart almost laughed. "The government doesn't care, one way or the other, about us. They never have, not the Democrats, the Republicans, the Socialists, the Fascists...we're neither thorns to pluck or s.h.i.+t with which to fertilize."

"Nice image, " P.B. said, wrinkling his muzzle in disgust.

Bart shrugged. "Talents have been useful to the government at various points, but it's always been on an individual basis, and as far as anyone's been able to determine the Powers that Be have no clue that we have anything even remotely like organization. As far as they're concerned, their Talents are random sports within the general population. They like thinking that, so they're going to continue thinking that."

"They'd not be so blase about the fatae. If they knew."

"If they knew, you'd all be lumped under illegal immigrants, not contributing to the economy, Homeland Security's problem, " Bart said in agreement. "Has any brown s.h.i.+rt approached you?"

P.B. showed teeth in a way that was surprisingly comforting. "If they had, they wouldn't be doing it again." He caught sight of Wren's grimace, and shook his head. "You said I could do what I wanted to people, so long as I didn't eat any more dogs."

"That's not what I said!" Wren exhaled like someone had sucker punched her, swiveling in her chair to look at him in outrage.

"Children. Back to the topic at hand, please?"

The two of them glared at each other, the demon stuck his dark blue tongue out at the lonejack, and she responded by giving him the finger. It was almost, for a moment, like easier, kinder days.

Bart seemed reluctant to break it up, but did so anyway. "Children? On your own time, please, not mine."

"Right." The moment past, Wren was all business again. "So in order to make this work, we need someone whoa. knows that there is a Cosa to be manipulated, b. knows how to manipulate us, and c. has something to gain from doing so."

"It does all scream Council, " P.B. said. He tipped an invisible hat in Wren's direction. "Despite what you said, before."

"Uh-huh." Wren had a bad itchy feeling at the back of her scalp that had nothing to do with not having had a chance to take a shower that morning.

"What?" Bart looked at her as though expecting something.

"I dunno. You have a phone?" There were times-days at a stretch-when she didn't mind not being able to carry a cell phone like the rest of the known, Null population. But sometimes it really would be useful.

Bart looked at her as though she'd suddenly turned green and sparkly and dangerous. "In the study. Down the hall."

"Thanks." She forgot, sometimes, that not everyone turned electronics into quivering ma.s.ses of uselessness just by standing near them. It was a matter of pride, mostly; the stronger your core was, the purer your connection to current, the less time you could spend in contact with electronics before they went kablooey. Wren was strong; she'd killed three of Sergei's cell phones just by stroking her current, much less using it. Bart wasn't at the same level. It wasn't a breach of manners to remind another lonejack of that; one-upmans.h.i.+p was more highly regarded than manners anyway, especially by someone like Bart. But her innocent question could also have been seen as a put-down, or some kind of power play. Rather than try to explain herself, she went down the hallway to make the phone call.

His apartment was like hers: spa.r.s.e, and mostly undecorated. She stared at the phone, a plain beige plastic number the kind they sold in discount stores for $9.99. He had basic protections hooked up to it, but nothing like her own. And no answering machine-although he might have a service, which someone with money and sense would have, just to keep electronics to a minimum. Although there was no computer, either, even if this was clearly his office area. Computers were almost as vulnerable as PDAs to current, no matter how many ways you safeguarded it. Either his control wasn't all that hot, or he did most of his business in person. Or both.

Calm. Controlled. Centered. Grounded. She felt her core, and was rea.s.sured that it was smooth and unworried, despite the bad feeling in her scalp, and her own distaste for what she was about to do. Picking up the phone, she dialed a number she had, reluctantly, under protest, memorized.

The phone rang at the other end. And rang. And rang some more, until the click of a voice mail system came on.

"You have the number, you know who this is. Tell me what you want."

Despite herself, she had to grin. Nice message. She had one in return.

"Andre. It's Valere. Time to pay the debt. I need an answer from you."

It was a simple enough question. She only hoped he was willing to answer it.

She could have called Sergei, had him get the answer for her. Even with him not in the city, it would have been easier. Faster. Probably smarter. But something made her shy away from the idea, and instead deal directly with the devil himself.

Hanging up the phone, she touched her core again, just for rea.s.surance. Losing control of that tendril had shaken her; she hadn't done that since she was a kid, not without a lot more cause.

It was all getting to be too much. Too much effort. Too much responsibility. But there wasn't any way out; not now, not then, not ever since this had all started. Wren had always refused Fate, denied karma, but...But she had the particular skills and-in this case-contacts the Cosa needed, and no matter how dirty it made her feel, it had been the right thing to do.

She envisioned the current stored and renewed within her as snakes, coiling and slithering around each other in the warmth of her core, the dry papery sound of scales their endless song. It soothed her. She wondered, briefly, how Bart saw his current.

Gah. She needed more coffee.

By the time she got back to the main room, P.B. had already left. She was somewhat taken aback that the fur pile hadn't said goodbye, but considering how often they'd been seeing each other recently, and how soon they'd probably be in the same room again, it did feel a little silly. He'd never been much on goodbyes, anyway.

"I have a call in to someone who might be willing to help us, " she said, sitting down on the sofa again.

Bart made a "go on" gesture, but Wren shook her head. She was uncomfortable enough calling on Andre, without letting people know she was calling on him. Or, more specifically: the resources of the Silence, which had, after all, failed her rather spectacularly before.

So why are you trusting him now?

Because we're out of options, she told herself.

Bart got a look on his face that indicated a game of mental tag in process, probably with the other members of the Quad. Wren waited. They conferred, came to a conclusion: "I don't suppose you want to go back with me to do some more damage control?"

Wren didn't. At all. But that was exactly what she had signed up for: guiding them through the nasty little dance steps of working with the fatae and the Council, and all the other players that most lonejacks had the basic common sense to stay away from. The Truce was broken, but the talks were still going on. So long as that was true, Lee's legacy was on hold, and her guilt alone would keep her at the table.

So she sighed, and grabbed her coat from the brown leather armchair it had been tossed over. "Let's go."

"You don't need your coat, " he said, and Wren only had time to feel her gut seize up before the Translocation hit.

I f.u.c.kin' hate this, she thought, even as her stomach twisted on itself and she reappeared in the Truce headquarters, trying very hard-and failing-not to throw up.

"Next time, " she heard a voice say in disgust as she was falling to her knees, "we let her take the subway, okay?"

There was a hard knock at the Quad-commandeered apartment's door, breaking into the irregular rhythm of the ongoing arguments.

"Is she here?" a voice demanded from outside.

"Yeah." The person on door-duty didn't seem inclined to let the first speaker in, despite the affirmative answer, and at Beyl's signal her gnome-a.s.sistant, who still hadn't been introduced by name, was sent off to expedite matters.

Sergei came into the dining room/meeting area, shedding his coat and looking like a two-legged thunderbolt. The seven humans at the table variously braced themselves, and Beyl's top feathers fluttered as though catching a faint breeze. The only one looking unruffled was the folletto, a tall, almost translucent fatae who was currently serving as lieutenant-reporter to the Patrol sectors.

Wren braced herself. "What couldn't wait?" Her tone was cool, meant to remind him that he was allowed in here only on sufferance. That he was a Null, and not a part of these deliberations. He walked away. He wouldn't take your concerns seriously. If he won't protect himself, then you have to do it for him. But it was hard. G.o.d, it hurt.

"I got a phone call that was of probable interest." He looked at her, directly, without any emotion showing at all. For the first time in years, she couldn't read him.

"A call from..." Colleen prompted.

"A mutual friend, " Sergei replied, still staring at Wren.

Andre. The rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d had gone to Sergei, instead of getting back to her directly. b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Cowardly little...Ignoring the fact that she had told him off in a significant fas.h.i.+on the last time he had tried to come to her with anything.

"Did he have anything useful to share?"

"Not particularly, no." But the carefully controlled look on his face suggested otherwise; she could tell that much, still. "But the things he did have to say were...interesting. The situation with the missing operatives is possibly deeper than we knew." He brought himself up hard, then gave in, a little. Not an apology, but a sidestep: this was, like her calling Andre in the first place, too important to let their personal emotions interfere. "He's being stonewalled, even beyond previous miscommunications and delays, and that's made him curious. He's going to put his best people on following up on your suggestion. His best person, actually. If it's knowable, Darcy either knows it, knows someone who doesn't know they know it and knows how to get it out of them, or can put together pieces and be the first person who knows it."

Wren actually followed that sentence. "And she'll bring it to our mutual friend?"

"Without doubt."

"All right." She turned back to listening in on the conversation they had been having when Sergei came in, semi-absently pus.h.i.+ng an empty chair next to her out for him to take. Not quite the "welcome home" she'd like to give him, if things were different, but it would have to do for now.