Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [53]
Electricity crackled around her, and her awareness fell into the database.
Behind her, Sergei shook his head, sitting down on the floor so that he could work while still keeping an eye on her motionless body.
Sometime around one in the morning, Sergei, finished with the papers he had been searching through, reluctant to make any more phone calls at that hour and bored with looking over her shoulder, started to get restless.
“Go home,” Wren said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. The remains of dinner had been stacked in a pile on one corner of her desk, and she occasionally took a pull off the liter of soda at her elbow, barely aware that it had gone flat and gotten warm more than an hour before. She had come out of the database around midnight, and had begun typing what she had learned, working faster than she had thought she could type. You basically got an infodump, and then it was up to you to sort through it. Problem was, if you didn’t get it down one way or another real fast, it went zip out of your brain and all the money you’d put into the meter was for nothing.
Not to mention the fact that data-dipping made her cranky, sore, and hungry as a bear after hibernation.
“I’m fine.” Sergei shifted his legs under him again, and swore as several papers fell off the lap desk he was using and onto the floor.
Wren shot him a Look that had no effect except to make him go pace the hallway instead. Ten minutes later her fingers finally started to slow down, and then stopped. She shook them out to see if there was any nerve damage, pushed back from the desk, and stretched hard enough to hear things creak.
“Didier!”
He leaned into the room. “Done?”
“Mmm, I think so. Need to let it sit and then come back to see if it’s in English. Come on. I feel the need for dietary disaster. It’s ice cream time.” She took him by the hand and dragged him out of the apartment and down the stairs.
“I don’t want ice cream,” he said, trying to dig his heels in. “It gives me gas.”
“You’re giving me gas. So if you won’t go home or at least take a nap, then shut up and walk with me. Ice cream helps me think. You can just keep me company, okay?”
They left the building, Sergei taking her hand off his forearm and enfolding it with his own much larger hand, an apology for his behavior. His fingers were warm, their palms sliding against each other with the smoothness of flesh-to-flesh, and Wren leaned her head against his shoulder briefly. “See? You feel better already.”
“I was fine,” he said, shoving her away with a nudge of his arm, as though embarrassed to have her leaning on him. His fingers remained laced with hers.
“You were fine. Now you’re better.” The night air felt wonderful on her face, and in the distance she could hear late night traffic, and the occasional chop-chop-chop of a helicopter flying overhead. Maybe a news crew heading out to New Jersey, or a Coast Guard crew on patrol. A few other couples were strolling along the street, coming off the bar scene in Greenwich Village a few blocks away.
“Besides, you’ve never had Marco’s gelato. It’s awesome, in all the best ways. He makes it with—” She stiffened, her hand convulsing around his before her fingers fell slack and dropped from his grasp.
“Wren?” He stopped, startled. “Wren? WREN!” His yell attracted the attention of a couple walking towards them. The man slowed down, as though to swerve and avoid them. His companion glanced over worriedly as though afraid to see violence break out, then let her date drag her to the other side of the street. Sergei noted them, but paid no attention whatsoever. Everything that mattered was staring at the lamppost with blank eyes and a worse expression. His worst nightmare, piled on top of the events of that evening, was too much for him to deal with. He shook her, hard, his fingers probably leaving bruises