Retrievers - Burning Bridges Part 5

"In the end, though...?"

"Oh, in the end, they'll hammer the details out. Bart and Beyl won't let anyone out of the door until they do. But they didn't need me there to get to that point. And, honestly? Being in the room with that many people was starting to make me itch. n.o.body had a d.a.m.n thing worth lifting except Ayexi's wallet, and if I asked him he'd just hand it over to me. What's the fun in that?"

Sergei drank his tea rather than answer. While he understood and appreciated his partner's need to keep her hand in, as it were, he sometimes understood her mentor's reported exasperation with her light-fingered tendencies. For Wren, Retrieval wasn't just something she did-it was what shewas. And if she wasn't either working on a job, or recovering from a job, she was wondering where the next job was going to be. Time to find something for her to do.

"At the risk of being rude, I gotta go pee." She grinned at the expression on his face. "Sorry-I have to use the facilities to relieve my dainty female form, how's that?"

"Worse, " he said.

"Don't drink the last of my mocha, " she warned, and grabbed the last chunk of the biscotti to nibble on as she walked, as though not willing to trust him with it while she was gone. It was amazing, the calories she managed to put away. Current burned a lot of energy, even in pa.s.sive mode, but she used to at least moderate her intake. The past few months...

The past few months she's been using current almost continuously, between the Cosa and the jobs, and the general chaos...and you. She didn't touch him with current every time they had s.e.x, but often enough that he was starting to feel the c.u.mulative effect internally-and he knew that it had to be draining her, too. He tried not to ask for a jolt, but it was like putting a chocoholic into a fudge factory and handing them one of those little plastic knives; you were just asking for something to snap.

Thankfully, Wren was well trained; he had never met Neezer, but even by the time Wren was a teenager, she had some of the best emotional and physical control he had ever seen, and her mental control-as befitted an almost-Pure Talent-was even more developed. As she often said, current was power, and skill was all about controlling that power.

And yes, he admitted, he got off on that, too. Like a high-level sports car, knowing that there was so much horsepower under the attractive frame. You didn't have to be in the driver's seat to appreciate the surge of speed.

He thought about getting her another biscotti, but to do so he'd have to get up and stand in line, and then they'd lose the table to one of the groups cruising the food court, looking for an empty s.p.a.ce. He watched a few of them; people-watching was something he didn't do very often, but it was always interesting. His gaze moved past the gaggle of teenaged girls exclaiming over something one of them had bought, paused on two over bulked teenage males long enough to rate them not a threat, then lingered for an enjoyable moment on an attractive woman with skin the color of Wren's mocha, wearing a bright red s.h.i.+rt and skirt. She was moving with the long stride of someone who only had so long to do something before she had to be back upstairs in her office, and he felt a moment's smug superiority before something else snagged his attention.

A single bright green sheet, tucked under a plate on the now-empty table next to him. He didn't know why it attracted his attention, but he knew better than to ignore that kind of mental hijacking. As nonchalantly as he could, Sergei leaned forward and snagged it from the abandoned tray.

Tired of coming home to unwanted visitations? Concerned about the infestation of your building? Your neighborhood? Call us. We can clean things up for you.

The company was Midtown Pest Control Services, and there were two phone numbers and a Web site listed at the bottom of the page. A plain sheet, black type against the green paper: impossible not to read, once your eye found it.

Scanning the food court, aware now, Sergei could see half a dozen of the lime-green sheets and a packet more of them on one counter, in a plastic dispenser. Son of a...

He crumpled the sheet in his fist, and tossed it into the nearest trash can, taking grim satisfaction at making the shot. Could he grab all the sheets and the dispenser, too, before Wren got back? Or would she come back and see him, and see the ads, and make everything worse?

He decided to risk it. If this was an innocent bug-disposal company, he'd feel guilty later. But the wording they used was exactly the same as the ads Wren had gotten, the ads the vigilantes used to spread their "services" back when this all began. And that was a coincidence he wasn't willing to ignore. Not if they were advertising again, soliciting "business." Recruiting new bigots to the cause. Building their troops against the coming confrontation. Or even just spreading their own brand of intolerance and filth into a city that already had enough, thanks.

Sergei wasn't unaware of the irony; he had once been deeply uncomfortable in the presence of any fatae, even before he knew how many were out there, pa.s.sing as human. Even now, the thought of them occasionally made his skin crawl in a way he didn't care to investigate. But these people...They were targeting not only the fatae, but anything magical.

And that included Wren.

Keeping one eye on their table, with the coats draped over chairs to indicate it was still in use, Sergei snagged four of the sheets and shredded them methodically into strips before dumping them in the trash can. He moved back to the table just in time to prevent three office workers from sitting down, despite the coats, and glared at them until they backed away.

There probably wasn't any way to get the pile of flyers off that counter, without attracting someone's- "Sergei. What a surprise."

All thoughts of the flyers got tucked away for later, as he turned to face the speaker.

Andre Felhim, dapper as ever in a charcoal-gray suit and a burgundy tie that emphasized the dark mahogany of his skin. He was followed a step behind by a taller blond-haired, pale-skinned man: Poul Jorgenmunder, his second-in-command.

Sergei used to stand just that way, at Andre's elbow. For about two years, before they started to disagree on almost everything. He didn't envy Poul his spot, although Poul was clearly jealous of Sergei's history with Andre.

Relations.h.i.+ps were the most confusing of all human inventions. That was a quote from somewhere, but Sergei couldn't remember who had said it.

"Andre." He didn't acknowledge the other man. It was petty, but satisfying.

The two men had laminated ID tags around their necks, with Visitor stamped on them in large red letters. That explained what they were doing here, then, although Sergei wondered what company in this complex had cause to call on the Silence. He hoped it wasn't NBC, although their fall lineup had certainly been a crime of inhuman proportions....

"Here alone? How...unusual for you, these days." Poul looked around, obviously looking for something. "No, no obvious freaks here, unless they're hiding."

Lonejacks weren't the only ones who knew how to control their emotions. Poul's baiting was too obvious; what was he really trying to get at?

"I received your letter. And your e-mail, " Andre said quietly, ignoring Jorgenmunder.

"And filed them appropriately, since you declined to respond?"

His former boss spread tapered, manicured fingers in an openhanded gesture. "I wish that you would reconsider..."

"You know I can't. And won't." They had been over this ground in previous meetings, before he sent the letter.

That letter had merely been a formal breaking of their contract, the devil's bargain that had tied Wren to the Silence, in return for a monthly retainer. Effective next month, January 1, the deal was null and void. If he could get Andre to sign off on it.

Sergei went on, quoting the letter almost verbatim. "The situation has changed on both sides, making the agreement impossible. If you try to fight it-"

"The Silence will not contest your right to end the agreement, " Andre said. He looked older, more tired than even the last time Sergei had seen him. The difference between this man and the man who had recruited him out of college, trained him, was striking; far more than could be accounted for simply by the pa.s.sing of years. "I made the offer in good faith and yet, as you rightly pointed out, we have not followed suit."

The weight of guilt settled again on Sergei's shoulders. It wasn't Andre's fault, entirely. He, Sergei, should never have gotten Wren tied up with them, no matter how much they thought they had needed the Silence's help.

Once he had called himself an Operative with pride. Even when he left, it was burnout from the cost of the job, not dissatisfaction with what they did. Now...Now, he was afraid that the Silence was the greater threat than the Council; their motives less clear, their end purposes more shadowed. The organization he had once sworn his life to no longer existed; he was unsure what stood in its place, now.

He did know that he would mortgage the gallery rather than allow Wren to take any more of their money, and risk her life for their ends.

"I really don't have anything more to say to you, " he said to the older man. "Andre, I'm sorry, I have to go."

"Afraid someone will see you talking to us?" Poul asked, still looking for a place to push the verbal needle.

"No, " Sergei said, turning to look at him full-on for the first time. "You merely bore me."

Sergei picked up the coats off the chair, snagged Wren's mocha in his free hand, and walked away. With perfect timing, he intercepted Wren at the hallway leading from the food court to the bathrooms.

"Hey, " she said, surprised. "Sorry, there was a line like you wouldn't believe...You have to get back to the gallery?"

He grabbed at the excuse, which had the virtue of not being a lie. "Yes, I'm sorry. If I'd time I'd take you out for lunch, but..."

"S'okay, I'm not hungry, anyway. I've got some more errands to run, as long as I'm in midtown. And then I suppose I should go back and see if our fearless leaders have a new a.s.signment for me, or if they're still wrangling over how to arrange the patrols." She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled: he had more faith in the Cosa than most of the Cosa did.

"Maybe I'll get you a new job."

"That would be nice. Something-"

"Without h.e.l.lhounds. Yes, I remember."

She laughed. "Catch you later tonight?"

"Absolutely. I'll pick up dinner on my way home."

He helped her into her coat, gave her the mocha and kissed her, lingering a little more than he usually did, in public.

"Stay safe, Zhenchenka."

"They won't even see me going, " she replied, and he smiled; it was what she used to say, when he sent her off on a job, back in their early days.

When had she stopped saying that? He didn't remember. Probably around the time he stopped sending her off personally, every job. He thought he might start doing that, again.

"Stay safe, " he said again. But she had disappeared into the crowd, and even he couldn't find her.

Wren hadn't actually gone anywhere, using the crowd to backtrack to the food court. From there, she watched two men sitting at a table, one of them drinking a coffee, the other flicking an unlit cigarillo between elegant dark-skinned fingers. She had seen that restless motion before; Sergei, with his thin-rolled cigarettes. She had never seen him actually light one, never known him to inhale anything other than the aroma of a good wine. But he would roll a cigarette between his fingers like a magician with a coin, whenever he was deep in thought. Or nervous.

Now she knew where he had learned it.

"Idiot man." If she'd come back and surprised the three of them together, she would have known by Sergei's reaction what was up, end of story. He could pull the poker face only so far on her, these days. She thought, anyway. But the way he rushed her off...

It didn't matter. Much. Keeping her and his Excellency Andre Felhim far apart was an excellent idea, no matter the circ.u.mstances. Someday she really was going to forget what manners Neezer had taught her, and give that arrogant, supercilious know-little a good shocking-to.

So. Sergei probably had the very best of intentions. Let it go, Valere. She really did have errands to run, of a sort, and this was as good a place as any to do them.

She found a quiet place to sit, on the edge of an indoor planter, with weird frondy things that almost hid her from sight. Closing her eyes and letting the clatter around her fade into white noise, she grounded and centered, reached inside and stroked one thin snake of current inside her. Prepared, she sent out a flurry of pings, directed mental knocks, to half a dozen Talent that she knew worked or lived in the immediate area.

Then she sat back to wait. It took exactly six and a half minutes for the first response to come in.

Wren lifted the lid of her gingerbread latte and inhaled the aroma as though it were oxygen, and she hyperventilating.

"Are you going to drink that, or have s.e.x with it?"

"I can't do both?"

There were three of them around the small, round table: Wren, in jeans and sweater dressed for warmth and comfort, an older man with a smooth-shaven head and dark blue eyes, wearing a white s.h.i.+rt over dark cords, and a woman with a thick black ponytail setting off her red sweater dress. She looked like a college student compared to their crisp professionalism.

The man watched while she took a deep sip, tracking the liquid as it slid down her throat.

"You must be a h.e.l.l of a co-"

"Michael!" The woman in the dress slapped his arm before he could finish the thought.

Michael's eyes twinkled innocently, and Wren managed to swallow before laughing.

"Seriously, " he went on. "You called. We're here. What do you want from us?"

Wren put her drink down on the table, needing to take a moment to collect her thoughts. The last time she had tried to canva.s.s for information, half the Cosa had crossed the street rather than talk to her, and the ones who couldn't get away balked at every question. Now, all she had to do was ping a Talent, and they showed up. And paid for the coffee. All it took was a rumor that you were responsible for lifting the darkness of the summer heat wave, even if n.o.body was quite sure what the darkness had been or how it ended; of being the lonejack who faced down the Council; of being...all things she wished she'd never become. But today, it was useful. So she'd use it.

"Is this about the meetings they've been having?"

"What have you heard about it?" Michael was a lonejack and Seta was Council, but neither of them worked with their Talent: he was a lawyer, she taught history at a charter school in midtown. They were about as close as you could get to the Cosa 's middle cla.s.s, if such a thing existed.

"Not much." Michael took a sip of his coffee. "That there were meetings going on, high-level stuff, the Council coming down among the unwashed ma.s.ses, more fatae seen in town than anyone can remember...Is it true, that someone's hunting them?"

Seta sighed. "You are so painfully out of touch.... Didn't you hear about the Moot Ma.s.sacre?"

Wren blinked. All right, she had missed that particular nickname for the attack....

"I figured it had been exaggerated, or something." Michael didn't seem too abashed.

"Lonejacks, " Wren said with a long-suffering sigh. "They just don't care."

"d.a.m.n straight, " Michael agreed.

"Well, you have to care, now, " she said, suddenly serious. "Because it's true, all of it. True and serious and in your face, right here, right now."

Wren suddenly felt a tingle on the back of her neck, as though someone was staring at her. But when she glanced casually around the Starbucks, everyone seemed intent on their own business. She looked out the gla.s.s window, thinking it might have come from out there. For once, there was no snow actively falling, but the streets were slushy, and the curbs and sidewalks were still coated with a dingy gray-white mix of slush and ice that caused pedestrians to walk with particular care or risk going down on their backsides. Preoccupied with staying upright, none of them were looking in at her.

Wren shook her head, telling herself that it was probably just someone's fur coat against the gray of sky and street that had flickered in the corner of her eye.

Whatever it was, it was gone now.

"Yo, you with us?" Michael asked, peering at her intently. "You zoned for a moment."

"Did you..." She shook her head, dropping the unasked question. "Yeah. I'm here. So, now you know the deal. My question is-would you join a patrol if they were organized, all three groups together? Keep an eye on things, report back, be willing to be part of a multip.r.o.nged, organized approach to what's going down?"

Michael nodded once, firmly, without having to consider the question very long.

Wren added, because she had to know: "Even if the Council voted against it?"

Seta looked like she'd just felt the rough brick of a wall come up against her back, hard. "Voted..." She sighed, and stared down into her cup. "Look, if the Council says no, we-Council members-jump no. You know that. But if they don't say anything specifically that is shaped like a no and sounds like a no and smells like a no..."

"Then it's not actually a no."

"Not actually, no."

Wren nodded. It wasn't good enough, but it was the best she was going to get. And there were others she needed to meet with before she could call it a day. No rest for the weary...

Six.

Sergei walked into the main room and came to a full stop, staring at the disaster that greeted him. "Merry Christmas?"

Wren made a face, glaring at the pile of cards she still had to sign, stamp, and mail out. She'd conned Sergei into printing up her address lists on his computer at the office the month before, so all she had to do was peel off the labels and stick them on. Her mother would be horrified-"holiday cards should always be handwritten, Genevieve"-but she figured the Miss Manners points she'd lose she'd make up in ego-points with her fellow lonejacks, who would know that she'd somehow managed to use not only a computer, but a printer, as well.

That time-saver hadn't managed to keep her piles of envelopes, cards, and colored pens in any semblance of order, however. Nor had it gotten her a.s.s in gear any earlier, despite everything being ready and waiting for weeks now. In her own defense, she had been a little busy. And, d.a.m.n. Tea. The urge to make it arrived, a little late.

Sergei was going to have to make his own this time.