Retrievers - Burning Bridges Part 6

Sergei closed the door, unwound the m.u.f.fler from his neck, took off his coat, and hung them both in the closet. The snow was falling again outside, based on the dampness of his shoulders and hair. Normally snow on Christmas Eve would be a thing to delight in. This year, it was just cause for sighing and shrugging. The weather folk were reporting a record seven feet of the cold stuff so far for the winter, coming up on the record from 2001, and there were still two months of the season to go.

She'd gotten too used to Sergei being here, maybe, for the old early warning tea-urge to kick in.

Wren had all the curtains drawn across the windows, and in the corner, instead of a tree, there was a metal candelabra in the shape of a Christmas tree with thirteen green candles burning. She saw her partner studying it, and knew that he was seeing Lee's work in the turn of the metal branches, and the solid but somehow delicate design of the base. It hurt, still, to look at it, but it was a good kind of a hurt, now. It was a remembering kind of a hurt, as well as a missing hurt.

For a borderline klepto, she didn't have many belongings-she'd take something she liked, and then discard it when she got bored-but this, and the fabric painting s.h.i.+n had sent her all the way from j.a.pan, were more than things. They weregifts.

She looked up at her partner, now, indicating the piles of holiday cards in front of her. "Why do I send these things out, anyway?"

"I have no idea."

If you sent them out early, they were an unwelcome reminder that the holidays were coming and you still had too many things to do. If they arrived during the holidays, they were just tossed with the rest of the cards in some sort of display that just meant another thing to clean up after. And if you sent them too late, you looked like a slacker. You just couldn't win. But this year at least it gave her hands something to do, and occupied a portion of her brain so that she wasn't always circling around back to the thing she couldn't actually do anything about.

Sergei slipped off his shoes and sat down on the floor next to her, wincing as his expensive slacks came into contact with the floor. "Been cleaning again, have you?"

Wren sniffed, smelling the wood oil she had used on the floor. "I couldn't sleep, " she said. "And it was on my to-do list."

"You've never had a to-do list in your entire life." She wrote things down, but for memory-jogs and references, not to keep things orderly or organized.

"In my head. My head is stuffed full of to-do lists." A whole list of things to keep her hands busy. "Here, " and she pushed a small pile of invites across the floor to him. "As long as you're here, be useful and stuff these in the envelopes."

He obligingly started placing the cards inside the addressed envelopes, and tabbed the stamps on them without being asked.

"I miss licking stamps."

She shook her head; her hair, still wet from the shower she had taken once the bathroom was spotless, slid pleasantly on the back of her neck. She had taken extra care with her appearance tonight: a long velvet skirt and sleeveless top in a deep purple the exact shade of shadows. She had even used eyeliner to give herself what she thought was a slightly exotic look. But her hair was merely combed through and left to dry by itself. There was only so much fuss she was willing to go through, even for Sergei. "You're a sick, sick man."

"True. But I brought dinner, so I'm forgiven."

She had heard him messing about in the kitchen just after he entered the apartment, even before he took his coat off. "Yeah? And do we have a Christmas goose resting in the oven?"

She looked up at him again as she said it, and did a cla.s.sic double take at the crestfallen look of "surprise ruined" on his face.

"A goose?" She did not squeal-she never squealed-but the noise was apparently enough to restore some of Sergei's self-satisfaction, even as she launched herself onto him in an exuberant hug. "Goose!"

The world, apparently, could go to h.e.l.l in a snow-covered hand basket, so long as one had goose for dinner.

"I invited some people over for dessert, later, " she said, letting him up after appropriate thanks had been offered and accepted.

"Oh?" They had never actually spent Christmas Eve together before, so he couldn't know if this was normal or not.

"Well, Bonnie. And P.B."

"You had to actually invite him? I expected him to appear the moment the refrigerator door was opened."

"Hush. Yes, for dessert. Also a couple of Bonnie's friends, a bunch of PUPs"-the rather grandiosely named Private Unaffiliated Paranormal Investigators-"and P.B. said he would bring some 'cousins' he wanted me to meet."

"So this is more of a working get-together, then."

Wren twisted her mouth as though tasting something sour. "I like Bonnie, and she is a neighbor. And it's never a bad thing to be on good terms with PUPs. And although most of the fatae don't seem to have any religion as such, I have yet to meet one who didn't love sweets."

"Then I'd best get dinner warmed up, or we might not have a chance to finish before the sugar-craving hordes descend." He leaned forward to kiss her again, and then got up off the floor, more slowly than he'd sat down.

"I'm getting too old for this, " he said, stretching out his back. "Would you mind terribly actually buying some comfortable chairs, at some point?"

A year ago, he would have insisted that they go to his apartment, or just said nothing and kept his discomfort to himself, aware of how touchy Wren could be about her personal s.p.a.ce. She supposed that this was progress, that he felt comfortable enough to make suggestions-and that he was phrasing it so delicately.

"I had been thinking about getting a few beanbag chairs-they're all popular again, you know?"

Sergei just groaned and went off to the kitchenette, her laughter following him.

She had just finished off the last of the cards when a series of mouthwatering smells tickled her nose and made her salivate. She gathered up the cards and went in search of her dinner.

"Where's that table you bought?" he asked as she poked her nose into the kitchenette.

"Office." She had bought it in order to have a place to meet with a client, but had decided after that it didn't fit in the main room.

"Get it. I'm not eating Christmas dinner either at the counter, or on the floor."

Grinning, she went in search of the table and chairs. She added a white cotton tablecloth, draping it over the inexpensive wood, then stood back to admire the effect.

"Much better."

Somewhere, she was pretty sure that she had napkins, too....

Going back into the office, she pulled open the dresser drawers and rummaged through the fabrics stored there, coming up-much to her surprise-with a set of dark burgundy napkins, and a narrow runner to match. She couldn't remember buying those, or stealing them....

"Mother, " she said with a sigh, taking them out and closing the drawer with her hip. Someday, her mother would accept the fact that her only daughter had all the social graces and homemaking skills of a stick. Until then, these sort of secreted-away "gifts" would continue.

Still, she was using these. So maybe there was hope for her yet.

They had barely cleared the dishes when a white form appeared at the kitchen window, black nose pressed to the gla.s.s like an urchin in a Charles d.i.c.kens novel. Then he scratched on the gla.s.s with his claws, and Wren amended that reference to something out of a Stephen King novel.

"Should I let the little moocher in?" her partner asked.

"Might as well, or he'll freeze there, and I won't get rid of him until Spring."

Sergei pushed up the window, and P.B. came in, followed by a form draped in a heavy dark cloth. They shook the snow off themselves, letting it fall to the tile floor, and then P.B. helped his companion out of the cloak, revealing not one but two fatae. "Oh!"

Wren couldn't help it; the sound escaped her without thought. Sergei muttered something in Russian that was probably turning the air blue, but she didn't have time to slip into fugue state and check.

The first fatae was delicate as a reed, with skin like mother-of-pearl and a face that could have launched a thousand alien sighting reports. And on that pearlized skin, from oversized eye to pointed chin, was a clear and unmistakable bruise in the shape of a human handprint. The bruise was, undoubtedly, what had caused Sergei to swear-the fatae itself caused Wren's exclamation. She quickly averted her eyes, as much to give it privacy as for her own recovery.

The second fatae was a gnome-short and st.u.r.dy, only the leathery gray skin set it apart, at first glance, from a slightly overweight toddler. It removed the watch cap from its skull, and ran its k.n.o.bby fingers through the coa.r.s.e gray hair, trying without luck to fluff it up.

"Ma'am, " he said, bowing to Wren, cap held at his waist. "Many thanks for your invite. I'm far from my family and welcome the chance to not be alone on Christmas Eve."

All right, so much for my a.s.sumption that the fatae don't celebrate Christmas...

"You're quite welcome. Please, join us-P.B.!" Her voice sharpened slightly. "Stop shaking your fur! Go get a towel, if you need one. Not like you stand on ceremony around here."

By now she had her emotions under control, and was able to turn and meet the fairy, as well.

"And welcome, as well, to our home."

The fairy inclined its head, as regal as a swan, and those huge eyes blinked once, and then looked around itself in fascination. The fairies were one of the oldest, purest breeds, and now that she had experienced her delight in encountering one, the thought of someone-a human-lifting a hand to one outraged her at the deepest level of her core. If there was any breed that ought to be sacrosanct, a hill-fairy was it.

P.B came back with a towel, rubbing it briskly over his fur, bringing the moment back into the realms of the ordinary. "So, Valere, where's the chocolate?"

"Oh, did I say there would be chocolate?" she asked him innocently, making a moue of surprise.

He didn't even bother to respond to that, but opened the fridge and started poking around.

"There are too many bodies in this kitchen, " she announced. "Sergei, could you please show our guests to the living room, " and bring in some chairs she suggested mentally, already running through the seating available. As much as she loved her apartment, right now she would have traded it for Sergei's to-die-for sofas, and the gourmet kitchen, and...

"Valere." She jumped, looking down at her friend, who was staring at her with unaccustomed gentleness. "They're here for you, not fancy surroundings or snooty service. Cookies and milk are the traditional gifting, and half the time they're left on the hearth, anyway. You ever try to eat a soot- or dust-covered cookie? Bleargh."

She laughed, the way he meant her to, and reached over his head to pull down the bakery box from on top of the refrigerator. "There's a platter in the cabinet behind you, on the bottom shelf. Get it for me?"

By the time Bonnie thudded up the stairs to join them, the main room had been turned into a surprisingly comfy gathering s.p.a.ce. The one bit of real furniture in the room, an overstuffed armchair, had been taken by Sergei, while the gnome was comfortably ensconced on the small matching footstool Wren had almost forgotten she owned. P.B., Wren and the fatae were sprawled on her dark green velvet quilt, stolen off her bed and folded twice, and surprisingly comfortable. The tray of miniature pastries was on the floor between them, and several gla.s.ses in various stages of fullness were scattered among the seats.

"How many of your kind have been reported missing?" the gnome was asking, sipping his cider with surprising delicacy.

Wren got up to answer the knuckled rat-tat-tat at the door, and so missed Sergei's reply. Bonnie came in the moment the door was unlocked, a bottle of spiced wine in hand and a gangly male with straw-red hair and a crooked smile at her heels.

"Hi. Sorry we're late. I couldn't get rid of my folks." She was wearing a black lace sweater over a knee-length black leather skirt and black hiking boots, laced with red and green laces. "Here, a present." She gestured with the bottle. "Alphie couldn't make it. Got stuck on-call tonight, poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Who's-wow."

Bonnie, like Wren, simply stopped and stared at Aloise. Her companion-more traditionally dressed in dark brown cords and a sweater with a cross-eyed reindeer on it-took the bottle out of her hands before she could drop it, and handed it to Sergei, who carried it off into the kitchen.

"Hi. I'm Bonnie. You're amazing."

Aloise laughed soundlessly, and her eyes sparkled. Wren didn't know if all fairies were silent, if Aloise was unusual or-G.o.d forbid-the attack on her had rendered her voiceless-but she seemed perfectly able to communicate without vocal cords. She seemed to find Bonnie just as fascinating. "You already know P.B., " Wren said, making the introductions around. "And Sergei, who absconded with the wine. This is Aloise, and Gorry."

"I'm Nick, " the redhead said, reaching around the still-fay-struck Bonnie to shake Gorry's hand. "I'm Bonnie's partner."

"Oh?" Wren started to reconsider the vibes she had been getting from Bonnie.

"Work partner, " he clarified. "Although if she'd have me, I'd fall at her feet in an instant."

"You would not, " Bonnie said, shaking herself free of Aloise's spell. "You like 'em blond and busty."

"Come on, sit down, " Wren said, laughing. "Although you're last to arrive, so you get the nonslouching chairs...."

"Hah. You, girl, need to come furniture shopping. There's stuff at ABC that's absolutely calling your name." She turned to Nick and put one fist on her hip. "Bring up the moose, w.i.l.l.ya?"

Nick rolled his eyes, but sketched a bow at her command, then looked at Wren. "Where do you want it?"

"Anywhere you think it will fit, " Wren said.

Nick nodded, and closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent cantrip. He opened his surprisingly dark green eyes, and focused on a spot across the room from the easy chair. An instant later, the tingle of current heralded the arrival from Bonnie's apartment downstairs of the moose-a huge, scarred brown leather ottoman that could easily seat two moderate-sized people.

"So why shop?" Wren said to Bonnie. "I'll just borrow your stuff the three times a year I have people over!"

Sergei came back with the opened bottle, and placed it on the table next to the already-opened one, and the bottles of soda.

"You're both puppies?" P.B. asked, reaching across Wren's legs to grab another eclair. "How many of you are there, now?"

"Depends, " Nick said, sitting cross-legged next to the demon with depressing ease. Bonnie claimed the moose, while Wren sank less easily down onto the blanket again. "Actual working field agents? About...eleven?" He looked at Bonnie, who nodded. "Another seven people in the office, such as it is, and maybe a dozen who're in training. Probably only half of those'll make it."

"How much work are you getting from Council members?" Wren asked, grabbing another cookie for herself. "We were just talking about the missing lonejacks...have any Council folk disappeared, that you're tracing?"

The two humans looked at each other, as though trying to decide what to say, and then Bonnie took the lead. "Not many, no. But we've had a couple of calls...y'know, there's a whole population pool that's totally unaffiliated? I mean, even more than we are? They're from Council or lonejack families, but they've sort of walked away from the whole thing, don't identify with any particular culture. Even more gypsy than the gypsies. They don't even really consider themselves part of the Cosa . Not really."

"And some of them have gone missing?" Sergei leaned forward, his wine gla.s.s cupped between his hands as though he were going to warm the wine by his own body heat.

"Yeah. Some. The first instance we know about was before anything started with the Council, by almost a year. But the most recent one was just last week. Her folks came to us, when she didn't come home for the weekend like she'd planned."

Wren looked at Sergei, who had an expression on his face that she really, really didn't like. But when he didn't follow up on the question, she let the conversation roll on to the more pressing gossip about the brand-new Truce, and what everyone thought about it. That, of course, was why she'd invited everyone over in the first place. Letting the conversation move on, Wren let herself fade just enough that n.o.body would remember that she reported directly back to the Quad. Not that she thought these individuals would care, overmuch-and there wasn't anything she could do about Sergei's presence-but being in the background allowed her to watch the body language, which often told more than words ever would.

The first two bottles of wine were consumed, and another one opened, before the last crumbs of cookies were devoured and the last, somewhat tipsy celebrant was kicked out the door-Wren refused to let P.B. use the fire escape as usual, citing the ice on the rungs as cause.

"Oh G.o.d. No wonder I never have people over. It's d.a.m.ned exhausting. " Wren collapsed into the chair. Flicking a tiny strand of current, she turned the stereo on, and the soothing sounds of something with an alto sax came out of the speakers. The receiver had scorch marks and scratches marring the silver-tone surface, and the plastic dial had warped from current years before, but for some reason it still worked, even when she abused it like that. She'd often wondered if they had a testing lab filled with cranky Talent, putting their equipment through the wringer before letting it into the market. There had been rumors, a friend of Neezer's had told her once, that Detroit did that with their cars, back in the 1960s.

"But at least we know something useful. No, two things. One, that there are more Talent missing than we thought, and two, that no fatae are missing-they're either present and accounted for, or known dead, by known means." She sighed. "The fatae take better care of each other than we do."

"Or they have no concept whatsoever of privacy."

Knowing P.B., Wren was forced to acknowledge the probability of that. No fatae had ever, as far as she knew, displayed any concept of personal s.p.a.ce. Not even the ones who didn't have a herd or pack system in place.

"But what does it all mean? That's the real question. We have all this information now. I feel like I'm collecting sticks, but don't know how to build a fire."

"I think the fire's going to light itself, " Sergei said. He pulled the ottoman over so that he could sit down near her.

She waited. Either he would tell her what he was thinking, or he wasn't ready to yet. Either way, asking wouldn't do a d.a.m.n bit of good.

"Those Talent who've gone missing, the ones the PUPs are investigating? I think they might have been working for the Silence."

Wren closed her eyes, and counted to ten. Then: "Tell me about them."

She could see him, even with her eyes closed; the nose just a shade too sharp, the jawline maybe a bit too square, the hair beginning-all right, well on its way to-silvering at the temples and sides. And his eyes, that odd, inviting pale brown shade that made her not notice the lines and shadows that crept in, long night after long night. His voice painted the picture of who he was; if he were current, he would be a solid steady silver coil, ropey with power but quiet in it, too.

"There's not much I can tell you. You know about the FoCAs, the Talents the Silence hired."

"You told me a little...that they were low-res, mostly. The Silence used them for the jobs that involved out-of-the-ordinary stuff, probably of fatae or old magic origins?"

"Yes, although the Silence didn't know any of that, just the results." They didn't know-until he told them. Part of his deal, to win his freedom, to keep Wren free of their grip. That worked real well, didn't it?

He shook that thought off, went on. "Mostly they were kids, same as you were when we met. Bored with their lives, wanting something bigger, more important to do." Like he had been, when Andre recruited him. The Silence specialized in that.