Staying Dead (26 page)

Center. Pause. Check grounding. Wait for the thunder. Focus. Reach.

It was like sticking your tongue into an electrical socket, the adrenaline of a roller coaster's free fall, the instant of solitary orgasm. The reason wizzarts chased the essential moment, the philosopher's stone of transmutation, crude flesh into something transcendendant. Raw power filled her, surged through her body. The temptation was there to ride it, just let it take her where it would.

No.
Control. Focus. Bring it in. And slowly, slowly, painfully-pleasant, Wren forced the current to go where she directed it. They quarreled, and she held firm. It resisted, a tangible, almost-alive force, then submitted to the power of her will, and the protocol-raised walls.

The rain slowed to a faint pattering. The clouds still hung directly overhead, but the sun was beginning to glint again across the Hudson River, and the darkness was cut through by slightly less threatening-looking clouds moving in. Wren drew in a deep breath, feeling the answering surge of magic settling into her body and pooling into the reservoir she had made for it. Satisfied and satiated, she raised her arms high overhead in a full body stretch. And, as though in sympathy, a narrow rainbow appeared, arching from dark cloud to lighter one, almost directly overhead.

“How do you do that?” Sergei asked, part in awe, part in irritation.

Wren shrugged, not surprised, having sensed him somewhere in the back of her brain, when he came out to join her. “Magic.”

She wasn't kidding. Mostly.

He made a sound that might have been a snort, and she felt him coax the wet jacket off her shoulders, tossing it aside with a sodden
thunk.
Then his arms wrapped around her, fitting his dry suit jacket over her wet skin. For a moment, she let herself relax into it, the warmth and the security it promised. His jacket was cat-soft, the way expensive wool could be, and smelled like Sergei, a mix of salt and mint-spiced cologne that she could pick out in a crowd, if need be.

It didn't matter what he didn't tell her, she realized almost lazily. They'd hurt each other before. They were going to do it again in the future, no matter how much they didn't want to. You couldn't get that much under someone's skin, that much in their blood, and not know exactly how to hurt them, even without trying. But the bliss…the bliss that you could create, in that closeness…She giggled with the thought of it. Maybe not now. Maybe not even soon. But it was there. Waiting. Like current, coiled inside them.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. Come on, let's get back to work.”

 

The second front arrived about an hour later. All around the city people cursed, struggled with umbrellas, dashed into the nearest overhangs or ran, newspapers over their heads, for subway stops and building lobbies. Sergei, at Wren's request, opened all the windows in the apartment to let in the cool, wet air. She was still riding a high from the power feed, pacing the apartment like a caged tiger, occasionally stopping by a window to sniff the rain-laden air.

“Something's going on,” she said suddenly, stopping by the kitchen doorway.

Sergei, printouts and notes spread out over the kitchen table, looked up at her over the rims of his reading glasses. “How so?”

“I don't know.” She continued pacing down the hall. “But I know.”

“Well, let me know when you know what you don't know how you know,” he said, not expecting an answer. She had sucked in so much power, her blood was probably vibrating. He wouldn't get anything useful out of her until it had all settled in and been absorbed. And the storm being overhead would make it worse, not better. Anything could be going on in the city right now. And, knowing the city, and the players in it, anything probably was.

But none of it was likely to concern them.

 

The Frants lobby was still as pristine in its marble and chrome as it had been almost a week before, when Wren had been brought in to investigate. The storm—now directly overhead—muted the light coming in through the high windows, casting a subdued hush that seemed to mute the security guards sitting behind the desk, talking over the previous day's baseball scores.

“Please. A lucky play. If he'd fooled the runner into thinking he'd caught it—”

“In your dreams. Face it, there ain't gonna be a post season for those jokers this year.”

“Least we're still in the running. The Mets couldn't get a wild-card slot if you gave 'em Willie Mays in his prime back.”

They continued wrangling quietly, eyes trained on the monitors with the casual ease of professionals. One even still sat like a cop, left hand dropping to easy reach of a nonexistent gun in a nonexistent holster. The only other motion was the occasional employee coming back very late from lunch, or leaving early, heels clicking on the marble, or thudding soundlessly on the all-weather runners put down to protect people from slipping on wet marble. A siren wailed, a few streets over, and the voice of the ambulance driver hailed cars in front of him. “It would be nice if you got out of the way.” New York courtesy—the “asshole” unspoken but heard anyway. The quality of light shifted, as though a cloud had passed, allowing a flash of sunlight to escape, then the foyer was shadowed again. The former cop stopped, rubbing his right hand across the back of his neck, as though something had prickled the hairs there.

“Did you…” he started.

“What?” His partner looked at him curiously.

“Never mind. Must have been a draft or something.”

 

The ghost moved past the humans, dismissing them from its narrow focus of concentration. They were workmen, hirelings. Not the one he was looking for. The surroundings were wrong, different, but he knew the lines of the building, the feel of its structure, the soul within its walls—literally. This was his building. It had called him from where he had been, drawn him to the place where it began.

The place where it would end.

He simply had to find the one who had caused all this. Find him. Punish him.

Destroy him.

T
he message was waiting for her when she got back from the gym the next morning. Wren's natural inclination was to sleep, not exercise, but recent events had reminded her that when you never know when you're going to have to outclimb, outrun, or outdodge in the course of a job, it pays to have given some attention to your body. And it gave her something to do that didn't involve worrying at the various nets that seemed to be closing around her. Council. Silence. And this damn job, still unfinished and hanging over her head like a nasty, sharp blade.

Yeah, a couple hours of heavy sweating, just her and the weights and the treadmill, were exactly the thing for her situation. Although living in a walkup was its own sort of mindless exercise. She reached her floor and sagged against the apartment door in exhaustion. The city was warm today, unseasonably so, and the fact that the gym had blasted the air-conditioning made it worse, not better.

Unlocking the door, she started peeling off clothing the moment she made it inside, dropping things in a trail behind her as she went into the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast.

Heaven is good water pressure. Thank you, God, for the blessings of good water pressure.
Her building would never be featured in
Architect's Weekly,
but it had excellent plumbing.

Something pinged at her memory and she frowned, trying to remember what it was she needed to deal with.

“Oh. Right.”

Grabbing a towel off the rack she wrapped it around herself and walked back to the kitchen where she had seen the message light on her answering machine blinking.

“Miss Valere. This is Andre Felhim. I was calling to see if you would do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight.” There was a pause. “I have not cleared this with Sergei, as I suppose I should have—”

“He's my agent, not my keeper,” Wren told the answering machine in irritation.

“—but I was not sure if he would be pleased at our having direct contact. I do, however, feel that it is needful, as you, I am sure, have questions that Sergei may not be able to answer.”

The old curiosity lure. God, like that's not so transparent.

And so effective,
a voice that sounded a lot like Sergei's replied.

And so effective,
she agreed without hesitation.
Hey, they become clichés for a reason…

She picked up the phone, and, ignoring the shower waiting for her a few minutes more, dialed the number he had left.

 

Wrapped in a thick plush towel grabbed off the top of a pile of mostly-folded laundry, Wren sat down on the side of her bed and started to comb her hair out, careful of ever-present snarls. She really needed to remember to braid it, not put it into a ponytail.

Sergei liked it braided.

Right. So much for putting all thoughts like that on the shelf until you're a little less busy.
As though she'd be able to. He was in her thoughts on a daily basis before; how did she think she was going to banish him now, when there were more things to think about? Like the thought that maybe the affection she'd always felt under his heavy dose of senior partneritis might be more than just, well, affection?

Or it might not be. She had to deal with that thought, too, before things got way too weird.

“But later. Later.” Jumping off the bed, she tossed the comb onto the dresser and pulled on her underwear, then a pair of jeans and a tank top. Seeing the laundry still sitting there from weeks ago reminded her that there were other things she had to deal with today, and top of the list was the one she dreaded doing the most.

Cleaning.

For a small apartment, she thought twenty minutes later, the place could get
bad.
It wasn't that she was a slob, exactly.
I can just think of half a dozen things I'd rather be doing. A full dozen, even.

On the worst-last theory, she attacked the kitchenette first. Once the counters were cleared away and she had washed everything in the sink, she was about to head into the bathroom, armed with a scrub brush and Lysol, when a pile of drab green tossed into a corner caught her eye.

Her rucksack.

“Damn.” In the exhaustion after the job, she must have put it there, or maybe Sergei had. She retraced the steps in her memory, and determined that Sergei had been the one to take the rucksack from her. Frowning, she put the bathroom supplies down and sat down next to the bag to sort through what was in there.

“Bodysuit, filthy. Into the wash. Underwear and socks, likewise. Whew.” She sweated a
lot
on that job, apparently. Something felt hard under her fingers as she sorted through the cloth, and she frowned, patting through the fabric to find out what it was. From the arm pocket, she withdrew the ivory talisman, now broken in two unequal pieces.

I don't remember that. Or saving it.
But then, there was a lot after the ghost appeared that she didn't remember. Just the wand tapping the stone, and then…

The wand had touched the cornerstone. A glimmer of an idea came to life in her mind, and Wren closed her hand around the talisman. “Bingo!”

Scrambling to her feet, she left the other contents of the rucksack scattered in the hallway, going into her office, then looking around, shaking her head, and heading back up to the roof.

She thought maybe this needed fresh air and open space if it was going to work.

The sky was pale blue, with just a few storm clouds scudding along over the river to her west. But Wren wasn't looking for a storm—she still had enough in her to work this particular spell.

She didn't have any words ready, and nothing was coming to mind. Neezer had frowned on improvisation, but sometimes you just had to make do.

Holding her palm open and facing the sky, the smaller of the wand pieces—the tip that had touched the cornerstone—resting on her fingertips, Wren reached inside and pulled out just the thinnest strand of current. It wrapped around the ivory almost without command or direction, wrapping it in a faint pulse of blue-green power.

All current took a user's signature; the longer it was held, the deeper the impression went. The wand had touched the cornerstone, which was deeply imprinted not only with the original mage's power, but the current she had sensed in the ghost itself. So, with any luck, the wand would have retained a hint of that signature. Maybe enough to “tag” the ghost.

Cosa
forensics. She wished now she had been nicer to that cop, Doblosky? Maybe she'd stop by and do some shop talk, some night.

With her frustration distracted by that thought, the words came to her.

The glow zizzed at her, then sank into the ivory piece, disappearing…but not dissolving. She could feel it humming if she concentrated, working its way through the atoms that made up the bone, searching for that signature, that connection. When it found it, with luck…well, she didn't know what would happen, actually. That was the problem with making spells up as you went along. But once the connection was made, she should be able to use the ivory to track the ghost.

“
Should
being the operative word.”

She pocketed the ivory, and forced her shoulders to relax. Their client didn't want to pay them, the Council was maybe—probably—out for her hide, her partner had been hiding deep dark secrets, she was about to have a late lunch with a guy who was doubtless very very bad for her, and she was pretty sure the reason she'd never dated anyone seriously since she moved into Manhattan was because she was in love with aforementioned secret-keeping partner, who might or might not feel the same way about her.

“I really do love my life,” she told the pigeon sunning itself on the ledge without the slightest trace of irony. “I really do.”

 

Wren had chosen to meet at Marianna's, thinking that it would be her home territory. But the moment he walked in, it felt more like some weird kind of betrayal. Nobody should be sitting at this table with her except her partner.

From the way Callie handed them the menus, she wasn't the only one to think that.

“Nice place.” He shook out his napkin, placed it on his lap. Horn-rimmed glasses made him look like a college professor, or a politician playing the academic side.

“It is. Don't think about coming here on your own.”

“No, I think not,” he agreed easily. “Our waitress might poison me.”

“Probably,” Wren agreed, not even bothering to look at the menu. This guy was hard to dislike. Anyone that smooth, that easy to talk to, Wren didn't trust on principle. And when you added in what Sergei had said…

Suddenly, she wanted very much not to be here. Not even for a free meal.

“My partner doesn't like you.”
Might as well cut to the chase.

“Is that you meaning me, or you meaning the entire organization?”

“Yes.”

Felhim closed his eyes, visibly gathering himself. “I did walk directly into that one,” he admitted. “Are you going to take his dislike for your own, or make up your own mind?”

Wren snorted. “You really don't know me well at all, do you? For all your snooping and your spying—oh yeah, I know you've been following me, harassing my partner—you don't have a clue about me, Wren, the person, as opposed to The Wren, lonejack.” She bit at her thumbnail, thinking, then looked directly into his eyes. “Learn this right now, and everything will go a lot smoother. You tried manipulating me via Sergei. It didn't work. You won't be able to manipulate him through me, either. We're partners. So if he doesn't like you, or your organization, I'm going to assume that there is a good and logical reason to not like you as well.” She saw a faintly surprised look in his eyes. “Neither of us is exactly even-tempered, not when it comes to people trying to headcase us.”

“We're all a team now, Genevieve.”

“Ms. Valere. You don't get to call me by my birth name until I say otherwise.” Casual acquaintances could call her Jenny. And only family and total strangers got to call her Wren. She waited to make sure he'd gotten it. “As for teamwork…don't assume. Ever. I haven't signed on any dotted line yet, and I may not ever. I'm a lonejack, remember? I don't play well with others.”

“Your partner excepted.”

“My partner excepted,” she agreed.

Seeing he had closed his menu, she gestured Callie over. Andre ordered a salad and the fish. Contrary, Wren decided on the spur of the moment to have the hanger steak. Callie almost dropped her pencil in shock.

“Never think you know someone,” was all she said as she walked away. Wren was pretty sure Andre had gotten the point.

“So tell me about the Silence,” she said after Callie had delivered their salads. “Your take on it, not the official PR brochure.”

“We don't have any PR,” he said. “We take our name rather seriously.”

Okay, no real sense of humor about the organization. Noted.

“Not the official line. You want me to make my own opinion about the Silence? Accept the fact that I'm not impressed by Ideals and tell me what really goes on.”

He put his fork down and considered her across the table. His skin was slightly mottled over one cheek, she noted; the light played on the faint tracings of lighter skin, as though there had once been markings there.

“I always feel as though I'm channeling
Men in Black
when I say this, but…we are the court of last resort. Not only because we're the only ones who can deal with certain cases…but because oftentimes we're the only ones who know about it.”

Pretty much what Sergei had said. And she got the feeling they were both leaving things out, each for their own reasons.

“Sort of like a multinational Star Chamber, huh?” She sniffed at his surprised look. “Again with the assumptions. Okay, only an Associate degree. But I do read, you know.”

“I apologize. My surprise was unwarranted.”

“Damn straight.”

No need to tell him that Sergei had typed the phrase into a search engine and let her read up on it that night in his apartment. Another difference to keep in mind when she was looking for someone to get mad at. Felhim wanted to woo her over by sheer force of whatever. Sergei wanted her to make up her own mind. Well, mostly.

“And in response to your question, only in the widest sense.”

“Yeah. You guys authorize killing. The original Star Chamber didn't.”

Not that Sergei had said so much, in so many words. But it made sense.

And Felhim didn't deny it.

Wren supposed that if she had any real delicate sensibility, she would refuse the meal, refuse the deal, and walk out. Do the whole “I may be a thief but I have some standards” routine. She did a systems check, just to make sure there wasn't anything she was missing.
Nope. All quiet on the outrage front.
Not that she didn't disapprove of killing. She did. But she was also very much against getting killed. And if it came down to it, she thought she might have less trouble with being a killer than being dead.