Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [67]
“My thanks,” it said. “I was…uncertain if I would be able to take all three.”
“You probably could have,” Sergei said. He was favoring his right hip a little, and Wren tried to move his jacket aside to take a look at it. He slapped her hand away, gently. “I just hate seeing those odds in a fight.”
“You’re all right,” she asked it. “Can we…well, can we help you get to where you are going?”
“I live here,” it told her, then grimaced as though aware that the empty hallway, its wallpaper faded and peeling, didn’t quite suit it. “I needed to be in the city for a few days. Business to conduct. This is…known as a safehouse.”
“Not anymore,” Sergei said grimly.
“No. Not anymore.” It made a futile attempt to knock some dust out of its pelt. “I will inform the owners of this in the morning. For now, again, thank you, and good night.”
“What, no granting of wishes? No handing out of gratitude?” Sergei had meant for his comment to be for Wren’s ears only, but the fatae lifted its head and stared at him with outraged dignity.
“I am a Leshiy, not some Disneyfied djinni. I do not spend my life adhering to human-dreamed rules of how magic works.”
“Actually, they’re more suggestions than rules,” Wren said, stepping forward to help the fatae dust itself off. “And we prefer that you call it ‘Talent,’ not magic.”
The fatae turned its heavy, antlered head toward her. “That is bullshit. You have Talent. The thing you have a talent for is magic.”
“Oh, great, magical semantics in the middle of a crime scene. If you’re going to split word-hairs with me—” and she poked it in the middle of its pelt-covered chest “—I have a skill for Retrieval which is part of how my Talent manifests.”
Sergei snorted. “Magic. And they’re all faeries.”
“Thank you,” the fatae started to say. And then “Hey!”
Wren rolled her eyes. Men. Antlered or otherwise.
Back out on the street, Wren turned to say something pointed to her partner about dragging a poor defenseless lonejack out into the middle of chaos and then never actually talking about what he wanted to say, but the moment she opened her mouth her body betrayed her with a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. Great. Of all the times for her rush rush panic crash lifestyle to catch up with her.
“Go to bed, Wren.” Sergei didn’t look much better than she felt. His face was always lean, but now it looked drawn, and his skin tone had an ashy tint to it, even discounting the street-lamp lighting.
“You okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I just need a full night’s sleep and a few sales to keep the artists from whining at me.”
She laughed, as she was supposed to. “There’s still this conversation we were supposed to have—”
“Later.” He was too determined not to talk about it, after dragging her out to talk about it in the first place. The fight had put walls up between them, somehow, and she didn’t know how to pull them down, or even if she should, right now.
“Sergei…” Something told her that this was important, maybe even more important than the job, but he moved his hand so that his thumb covered her mouth, gently silencing her.
“You need sleep. Focus on the job.” He hesitated, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his hand resting on the side of her face. “Everything can wait until that’s done.”
He refused to talk about it any further, seeing her onto the subway heading downtown, standing on the platform watching as the train pulled away.
She trusted him. What other choice did she have?
eleven
Wren could feel the tingle run along her arms and down her spine. Nothing physical—this was a pure mental kick. Anticipation jiving with readiness. Matthew Prevost wouldn’t know what had hit him.
It had been late afternoon when she finally drove up to the site, and dusk had moved in while she got into position. She was dressed for work in a clouded gray bodysuit; camouflage for the shadows. When she worked in urban areas, she wore a more conservative gray or black fleece jogging