Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [45]
“Valere. Details?” He hated being half a step behind what was happening.
Wren held up a hand, halting him midinquiry. “Feel that?”
Sergei frowned, shooting his partner an irritated look. “No.”
“Oh. Right.” She at least had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, he thought, only slightly mollified. She held her hand out to him, and he took it, his much larger fingers engulfing her smaller ones. One thumb smoothed over the back of her wrist without thinking, feeling the goose bumps raised on her skin. The pale hairs along her arm were raised, as though a cold wind had blown in—or as though a surge of electrical energy had run through her.
“Company,” she said, too casual to actually be casual about it.
“Dangerous?” Ten years, and he’d never seen her look like this; half-annoyed, half-apprehensive, half-expectant. He kept his hand on hers, not sure if he was giving comfort or taking it.
“Don’t know. Probably not.” They were whispering, without even realizing it. “Timing sucks for coincidences, though, huh?”
“Not reassuring, Zhenechka.”
“Poor baby.” She chuckled, despite the strain evident in her body, and he squeezed her fingers gently in support and approval.
The light overhead made an odd fizzing noise, flared brightly, then shorted out. The lamp on Wren’s desk made a smaller snapping noise, and the bulb shattered. A handful of sparks shot out from the wall outlets, sending a strange blue-white light into the darkened room. Wren backed up, pushing Sergei against the desk, putting herself between him and whatever was forming within her office.
“Great. Now I’ve got to get those damn protective wards recharged. Not that it matters. This thing’s either benign, or powerful enough to short out my protections.”
“In which case…?”
“We’re screwed.”
The sparks had gathered as they spoke, forming a tight ball hovering around shoulder-high to Wren, perhaps three feet away. It shimmered, then coalesced, becoming almost solid, then stretched like Silly Putty down to the floor, and up another foot or so. A twist in the middle, where the stomach might be, and the shadow of features formed over the frame: pale skin, wild, wispy hair, and fierce green-sparked eyes over a high beaked nose.
Sergei took an involuntary step forward, trying to get Wren behind him, but she shoved him back hard.
“Max.” There was exasperation and not a little fear in her voice as she spoke his name. “You can’t just use the damned phone? Carrier pigeons?”
Sergei reached instinctively for the weapon he wasn’t carrying, then checked himself. Old habit. Wren hated guns, so much so that he’d long ago weaned himself out of carrying one rather than make her uncomfortable. And even if he’d had it, damn little good a bullet would do to a current-manifestation. Just put a couple of holes in Wren’s walls, which she would not thank him for. And that would be best-case scenario.
The current-manifestation giggled, then coughed, a rasping noise. “Not much time, storm’s pulling me out to Canada. Got a line on your boogie. Shimmied down a pipe, caught tail end of the signature you tossed to me. Followed it home and scared the spark out of some halfwit current-hacker. Name of the guy who did the hiring’s Matthew Prevost. Good luck, kid. See you in a few decades if you don’t get yourself killed.”
The sparks compressed, and imploded, sending them both to the floor, hands over their heads in a useless attempt at protection. Sergei rolled so that he was covering Wren’s much smaller body, pressing her into the carpet to shield her from the inferno occurring above. Wizzarts, he thought in disgust.
Wren was aware of three things. One, that eau d’ old carpet was not something you wanted to experience up close and personal on a regular basis. Two, she was being squished flat by something very large, warm and heavy. And three, the smell of burning hanging in the air over them did not bode well for her computer system. Wizzarts.
“Showy bastard,” she grumbled, the words muffled from the carpet under her