Staying Dead (23 page)

“Don't you think maybe that's for me to decide?”

All three men jerked to attention. Sergei cursed both his inattention and the standing order that, no matter what time of night or day it was, a woman matching Wren's description would always be allowed into his flat, no questions asked. He had meant it to be for her safety.
Another good plan gone to hell. Seems to be a theme for the day.

She stood in the doorway, arms firmly planted on her hips, and stared at them. No way to tell how much she'd heard. No matter, it was all damning.

“All right. Since I've crashed the party, do I get an invitation after the fact?”

Andre turned so that he was facing her completely. “This is Genevieve?”

Sergei gave him an “are you kidding?” look. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

Andre didn't bother replying to that. “Ms. Valere. My name is Andre Felhim, and this is my associate, Poul Jorgunmunder.”

“Generally speaking, people who have associates who look like that tend to say things like ‘I'm gonna make you an offer you can't refuse.' That your deal?” She ran her hand against the wall, as though testing the texture of the paint. Sergei recognized the move for what it was, a gathering of current from the wiring that ran behind the plaster.

“Wren…” he warned, even as Felhim rushed to reassure her.

“I assure you, there will be no need for…violence. On either side.”

She flicked a glance at Sergei, asking for feedback, which reassured him somewhat. She might be angry, but it wasn't out of control. Yet.

“It's okay, Wren.”

Her hand dropped from the wall. Sergei hoped that the Silence agents didn't make the mistake of thinking that meant that she was unarmed. No Talent ever was, a lonejack even less so. Paranoia was how they stayed clear of the Council. He should have been paying more attention to that lesson. He sighed inwardly. Douglas had been right. He
was
better suited to working within the system, not without.

“Right. Felhim and Jorgunmunder. Harassing my partner—” A subtle emphasis on the words, a touch heavier on
my
. “Talking about something my partner—” Again the emphasis, this time on
partner.
Sergei hid a wince. She was definitely angry. “—doesn't want me to know about.” She moved farther into the room, her boots making solid noises on the hardwood floor. Of the four in the room, Wren should have been the one overwhelmed. She was barely five-four—five-six in those boots—and hid her gymnast's strength under a deceptive softness. The unthreatening, unmemorable look she cultivated was so effective that you hardly ever saw her standing right next to you, and could rarely describe her five minutes after she left the room.

Sergei could, though. He knew where she was every minute they were in the same room, the same apartment. He knew the color of her eyes, and the shape of her chin, and the way that she stood, the way she slept. And he knew that underestimating her was the worst mistake anyone in this room—himself included—could make. He held still, as though a cobra had him in her gaze, and prayed he would survive uneaten.

“Secrets. Whispered conversations. Threats. I find things like that…very interesting. So talk to me. Who are you, Felhim and Jorgunmunder?”

The muscle shifted uncomfortably, but nobody bothered to look at him. “It's very simple, really,” Andre said. “I am an old…friend of your partner here, come by to see if he—and by extension you—would be interested in a business proposition.”

Sergei growled at the inclusion of Wren in his comments.

Wren raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing more. Encouraged, Andre went on.

“We work for an organization that has a vested interest in…ah, call it neutral good, if you have any familiarity with Dungeons and Dragons.”

“None whatsoever.” Wren rolled her eyes as she answered.
Why did everyone always assume that Talents were all geeks and role-players?
Why would you need pretend when you had the real thing?

“Ah.” He was a little nonplussed, but recovered fast, she'd give him that. “Then say that we are more interested in the long-term balance of the world, rather than righting specific wrongs, although we do take action on cases as needed.”

“And we are…?” She prompted him. Felhim looked at the redhead—Jorgunmunder, his name was—who made a “get on with it” gesture.

“The Silence.”

Like that was supposed to mean something.

“And…?”

“He never told you about the Silence.” Jorgunmunder laughed, a short, harsh bark. “Figures.”

He, meaning—“Sergei?”

Her partner, leaning against the wall, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair finger-combed until it was standing on end, refused to meet her eyes. Suddenly his unhappiness at the two men showing up made a lot more sense than just him declining a business deal. That was, technically, his job: to deal with offers. Except what was this group offering? Who were these guys, and what else had her
partner
been hiding from her?

“Mr. Didier has been an associate of ours for quite some time. It was he who first brought you to our attention, in fact.”

Wren didn't trust this guy—he was too smooth, too sincere—but she wanted to hear him out. Mainly—she admitted to herself—because Sergei obviously didn't want her anywhere near the others. And right now she was pissed at her partner. Royally, majorly pissed, so much so that she could feel the current stir within her involuntarily.

It wasn't just that Sergei had kept secrets. She'd known there were depths in him, secrets, past stuff. Whatever. It wasn't the fact that there were secrets that made her so angry. It was that someone
else
should be telling her about them. A betrayal of some vows she didn't even know they'd taken. Her gut seized up, her eyes burned, and she wanted equally to hurt everything in her path, and hurt herself as well. Physical pain had to feel better than the glass shards tearing their way inside her, right?

The last time she had given in to that urge was when she was fourteen and Paul whatshisname had stolen her bike and then dared her to do something about it.

Then, she had caused the tires of the bike to blow out while he was riding away on her bicycle, sending him careening into traffic where a car hit him, leaving him with a concussion and a broken leg.

Sparks danced around her hands, which were clenched so tightly her close-trimmed nails were about to draw blood from her palms.

And somehow her partner knew she was close to breaking point, because there he was, moving like the Wrath of God toward the older guy.

“Get out.” Calm but cold. And maybe not so calm underneath.

Jorgunmunder made a dismissive gesture. “Didier, I know you're upset but—”

“Get out!”

It was a roar this time, and the redhead took an involuntary step backward. “We'll call you….”

Felhim edged Jorgunmunder toward the door, one hand on his companion's elbow. “You'll call us,” he said calmly. “When you've made your decision. Ms. Valere. Sergei.” And the door closed softly behind them.

There was silence in the apartment. Sergei stared at the seascape watercolor on the wall over the sofa. He had bought the painting with his first paycheck, too many years ago to think about. The artist had gone on to command seven times the sum for one of her pieces. He had the eye for talent. And Talent. It had always been a double-edged sword.

“Wren…”

“No. Just…no. Don't…don't talk to me right now.” She glared at him. “Arrggghhh.” It was a long, strangled noise, then she stormed out of the room. He could hear her in the kitchen, opening cabinets and slamming then again while The sound of glass-ware, the refrigerator opening and closing.

She was angry; well duh, to use a phrase Wren had thankfully grown out of. He'd if not lied to her, then certainly omitted information. And possibly endangered her as well, although she couldn't know that. Or maybe she was angry because he was withholding a job possibility from her? But that was his job, to winnow through the offers and only bring her the ones he thought were worthwhile. So she couldn't be angry about that, could she?

Maybe he could have done things differently. But it had made sense at the time, keeping the parts of his life separate. He hadn't wanted to be Softwing anymore, hadn't wanted that life anymore.
There's always a price to pay.
His own words, twisted but still true. He only hoped the cost of this revelation wasn't more than he could afford.

He just had to trust her. And wait.

 

It didn't take more than ten minutes.

“How long?” She stormed back into the main room and stood there, one hand on her hip, the other holding a Diet Sprite, glaring at him. “How long have you been tied up in this, whatever this is, and not told me?”

Oh. Sergei rubbed his palms against the fabric of his slacks. Whatever he said, she was going to be unhappy.

“Sergei? Come on.”

“You never wondered why a mage wanted me dead?” Their very first meeting, when Wren had used her Talent to save him from a car accident caused by a mage seeking to hide some nasty doings.

“Yeah, yeah. You were poking around in his business. Mages get peevy about that, especially when they're not being good citizens.” She paused. “Since then? Since before then. You bastard!” Sergei had been prepared, but the soda can still nicked his ear as he ducked, and the stream of Diet Sprite splattered across his shirt. He controlled his instinctive reaction, keeping his hands loose and still by his side. Any movement right now would be risky. He said a quick prayer of thanks that Margot, Wren's mother, had instilled in her daughter a firm grip on her temper, and risked a glance at his partner.

She was seething. Literally. The nearest lamp flickered and then the bulb popped, the glass breaking with a faint crack. Sweat tracked under his collar, and he suspected that if he could see current, he would be close to wetting himself.
Stay calm, Zhenechka. Stay calm and we'll both make it through this intact.
Normally he could talk her down. But he'd never been the target before. Not like this. He could feel his little boat not only rocking but capsizing under his feet.

“Ten years. Ten years you've been working with these people…”

“No.” He risked interrupting her, to head off that misunderstanding before it got worse. “Not
with
them. I've been inactive—I haven't worked any jobs for them in almost eight years. Not since we went full-time.” He willed her to hear him, hear what he was saying.

She did, he could see it in her expression, but she wasn't cutting him any slack. And her fists were still clenched.

“Why? Why couldn't you tell me? I'm your damned partner, right? Why did this have to be some deep unspoken secret?”

A memory, the two of them sitting in a diner in New Jersey, the rain coming down heavy outside. She was so young, but her eyes were already shadowed with loss. “Partners?” she had asked. “Partners,” he had agreed. “Although I'll be handling the money….”

Senior partner. Why hadn't he—hadn't either of them—realized that the balance had shifted?

Because you were afraid to look,
his conscience told him.
Because once you looked, you might see other things.

“You don't know them, Genevieve. I wanted to keep it that way. They're not…” He hesitated, thinking of the best way to phrase it. “They're like the Council, only more so. You don't want to get tangled in them. Not ever.”

“You saying they're the bad guys? You working for the Dark Side now, Didier?” He'd taught her how to use sarcasm, but she'd taken to it like a pro.

“No. No, they're not…bad. They're good—but they're not neutral, no matter what Andre was trying to claim. They have an agenda, and they'll do whatever it takes, use whoever it takes, to create the result they think is best.”

Wrong answer. He could see the current rise in her, creating a flush under her skin as she finally turned on him, not with magic but with her fists, hammering against his chest with enough force to leave immediate bruises. He let her.

“Damn it, Sergei, I'm not eighteen anymore! Stop treating me like I'm still a little kid who needs to be protected!” Her voice cracked on “little,” losing the anger and was instead filled with the tears her eyes wouldn't release. The spate of violence ran its course: he rested his hands gently on her shoulders, wanting to comfort, but she turned away.

And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? He had made so many promises to keep her safe…. Douglas's words came back to him.
Stop controlling her.
“You were the oldest eighteen-year-old I ever met.”

Again, the memory of that afternoon in the diner. Her hands folded in front of her, brown eyes steady on his face as he laid out the proposal that led to the formation of their partnership. She had never been a kid. Not with everything she knew, everything she had been through even before they hooked up.