Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [44]
“An excellent point.” He kept a list, carefully coded, of all their jobs as well. You wanted to avoid crossing your own path, if you could. “So we’re back to—”
An ungodly noise interrupted him. Sounding like a cross between a scalded cat and a howler monkey, the screech came in through the window, rising from the street below. He dropped his mug, catching it again half an inch down, swearing as tea stained his pants. “What the hell—!”
Wren went to the window, throwing the sash up and sticking her head out. “Leave it alone, damn it!” Catcalls responded, male voices, teenagers, probably locals from the accent. She shut the window in disgust. “Mornag.”
“Mornwhat?”
“Mornag. I swear to God, Sergei, someday you’ll get over that speciesist stick that’s stuck up your ass, at least enough to know who’s who.”
“Or what’s what.”
“Don’t be snide. Mornag’re about the size of a mutt, and about as smart as one too. There’s a pack that lives in the Park; P.B. uses them as messengers sometimes when he can’t get to me. Local kids are a bunch of punks, though. Anything on four legs is fair game. Makes me glad I don’t have a pet.”
“Or a kid.”
“Oh yeah. Although if any kid of mine started running with the sort around here…did I tell you about the newest joy added to my life? Bunch of Neighborhood Watch types, trying to clean up quote—the inhuman trash—endquote. Started I think with a couple of ranters on a street corner a couple of years back; didn’t take them seriously, but they’re getting more sophisticated. Masquerading as a pest control outfit now, but they don’t want to know about your roach or rat problem. They’ve been messing with the sub-sentients mainly, mornags, a few piskies. But it sounds like they’re escalating.”
Sergei didn’t seem too impressed by that. If a fatae couldn’t outwit a few kids, or well-meaning vigilantes, he should stay in whatever hole he burrowed into.
Wren considered the window, then shrugged. “Well, if he was coming to see me, he’ll find a way in later. Business at hand. Your stuff means we wipe the Council itself off the short list.”
“And you don’t think it’s a rogue.”
“Nope.” She drew the shade again and leaned against the window, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair needed cutting again, he noted. Strands fell into her eyes and she scraped them back impatiently. “Not unless it was a personal thing, taking on a Council client to throw rogue status back in the Council’s face. But the setup doesn’t feel right. A rogue wouldn’t go for such a low-res deal. They like things a little flashier, something to justify their getting tossed. Very ‘look at me!’”
“Or, if someone hired them, a juicy enough paycheck to justify the lack of flash. Even mages have to pay the bills.”
“I guess. But it would have to be a major paycheck. Ego, Sergei. Mages are all about ego. In fact, the only way I see this as a magus deal is if the mage in question had a percentage in taking our client down, and if he or she or they did, they probably wouldn’t be letting us poke our little noses uninterrupted into—”
The lights suddenly dimmed throughout the apartment, and Wren uttered a short, nasty word, diving across the room—almost tackling Sergei in the process—to pull the power cord to her computer. She lay on the floor, panting, the power cord in her hand. The screen saver flickered, then restored as the battery pack setup took over.
Wren sighed in relief, letting her hand drop to the floor as the tension visibly released from her shoulders. Letting go of the cord, she got to her feet, then tensed again as the lights flickered once more. Sergei took his cue from her reactions, his body braced for action, although he wasn’t sure if it was to fight or flee. When a Talent was anywhere near any kind of power fluctuation, you assumed the worst.
Thunder rumbled despite a clear sky, and all the lights in the apartment went half-power.