Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [65]
“Uh-huh.”
There were Talents everywhere, some of them barely functional, others rivaling Merlin at his prime. Of the ones who were aware, active and trained, about one third were lonejacks, the freelancing scum of the universe. According to the Council, anyway.
The cop went back to his unwilling audience, and Wren and Sergei walked on without any further interaction. You noted, but you didn’t out a fellow Talent. It was rude. And possibly dangerous.
“Hey hey hey. In for a night on the town?”
Sergei froze the huckster with one chill glance, and he faded back into the garishly lit doorway.
“I thought the mayor had gotten rid of that.”
“You can’t get rid of sin, Wren. Not while there’s blood and breath.”
“Not the theaters, the talkers. Aren’t they supposed to stay off the sidewalks?”
“More laws are observed in the breaking than the following. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I?” A stranger’s voice. The cop had followed them after all.
“Just walking, Officer…Doblosky,” she read off the badge that was clipped to his NYPD windbreaker.
“Just talking,” the cop replied. He was a big guy, built like a linebacker, with close-cropped blond hair and faded blue eyes that squinted naturally. “You sassed the cleaners come to town?”
A frown, then comprehension. Did she know about the vigilantes. “Yeah. You know ’em?”
“They’re sloppy. They can tag their grime okay, but the mop slaps everyone, you know? And sometimes I’m not too sure they know grime from honest dirt.” He nodded once, his eyes still squinted into some nonexistent light. “Walk careful-like.”
“Plan to. Thanks.”
The cop faded back into the night-flow of pedestrians, and Wren shivered even with her jacket over jeans and T-shirt. Sergei moved closer to her, as though contact would ward off the nonexistent chill. She leaned against his arm, resting her head against his shoulder briefly. “I didn’t know they were in more than my neighborhood.”
“Makes sense. Lot of the fatae hang around Central Park, right? Probably along Riverside, too. Go where the hunting’s good is probably their motto. Sorry, where the cleaning’s good.”
“You’re such a bigot.” She shook her head; it was an old argument, and one they weren’t going to get anywhere with tonight. “Not all the fatae are like the pole-vik your grandmother told you nightmare stories about. You’d actually like P.B. if you ever tried to talk to him.”
“I’ll pass, thanks. Look, I don’t wish them ill. You know that. I just…”
“Don’t like them.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. So, you said you wanted to walk and talk. We’re walking…”
“We’re talking.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, and stared straight ahead, the comfortable closeness of a moment ago chilled slightly.
“Uh-oh. Sergei’s going all Mister Didier on me.” She slapped his arm, not gently. “I thought I’d broken you of that habit years ago. You only do it when you’ve got something to say you don’t want to say and once you do that I know you’ve got something ugly to say so you might as well say it.”
“It frightens me that I didn’t need a translator to follow that.” He was delaying, and they both knew it.
“Know me, love me. Talk to me.”
He didn’t want to, she could see that. Had probably, honestly, known it the moment he suggested taking a walk. Men, she thought in disgust. “All right, we’re going to be that way.” She tucked her arm into his and intentionally matched her pace to his longer stride, so they were walking in unison. “So we can talk about…hrm. The stock market? Nah, too scary. The government? Scarier. Job’s just about set, so there’s nothing more to gnaw over there. Oh, I know! We can talk about the fact that my fricking rent is going up. Again. Is it always wrong to kill people? I mean, landlord-like people?”
“Yes.” This too was an argument they’d had before.
“Darn. Okay, then let’s talk about the case anyway. I’m set for tomorrow, only need to—” A homeless person weaved too close to them, and Sergei swerved, pulling Wren with him. They’d had a bad experience with a homeless person, a year or so before, and he was still a little wiggy about