Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [103]
The place where it would end.
He simply had to find the one who had caused all this. Find him. Punish him.
Destroy him.
eighteen
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