Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [81]
A final, formal vote of no-confidence from the voice on the other end of the phone line meant more than a sudden career-change for both of them. He had wanted to hold his breath, hang on the next words. But instead he breathed normally, back relaxed against the support of his ergonomically correct leather chair, arms resting by his side, the very picture of open body language, as though that would somehow transmit over the phone. I have nothing to hide, I have nothing to fear.
“Sergei. Please don’t insult my intelligence. We’ve humored you for several years because we could afford to. But it’s time to come home now.”
“Go to hell, Matthias,” Sergei said softly.
But as he ended the call, staring blankly at the painting on the far wall of his office that normally brought him intense emotional satisfaction, he felt tendrils of fear stir, wrapping themselves around him until he could barely move. His thoughts were like pigeons, scattering as soon as they landed, over and over again, until he wasn’t sure what he was thinking at all.
The computer pinged to indicate an incoming e-mail, and Sergei broke himself out of the memory, wrenching his brain back to the chore at hand.
Action was the only cure for fear. Action was the only way out of the threads he could feel closing more and more tightly around them both. If only he knew what the right move was.
fourteen
He was sitting in a tropical bar, breathing the smell of night-blooming flowers and salt spray. A soft breeze kept the humidity at bay. His drink smelled of gin, and the ice cubes clinked pleasantly as he took a sip.
A hand touched his shoulder, running light fingers across the back of his neck. He shivered in pleasure and reached back to capture the hand, intent on pulling her forward, and onto his lap.
There was a faint noise in the background of his dream. It was familiar, category nonthreatening, sub-category comforting. So he ignored it, concentrating on the elusive woman behind him….
“Oh no you don’t,” he heard the nonthreatening voice murmur, and a sudden mental alarm went off—too late to keep the icy-cold hand from wrapping itself around his neck.
Sergei let out a shriek and bolted upright, causing the office chair he had fallen asleep on to roll backward, hitting the wall and rebounding, the swivel seat twirling slowly until it finally came to rest. He stared, a little wild-eyed, at his partner, who was grinning like a kid at the circus.
“You’re so cute when you freak.”
His hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing the skin as though to try and bring some warmth and feeling back into it. “Bitch.”
“Hey, you’re the one drooling all over my keyboard.”
“What time is it?” He had fallen asleep some time around three in the morning, based on his last recollection. Sergei vaguely remembered being able to handle the odd hours of a case better than he was feeling this morning.
“Almost seven. Had a passing recollection of you saying you had to be at the gallery this morning. New installation, right?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He stifled a moan as his joints woke up fully and started sending urgent messages to his brain. “I’m getting old, Wrenlet. Old and achy.”
She flicked him a glance, clearly assessing how much of that grousing was for show.
“Poor baby.” She shifted the baggie of ice from hand to hand as though to keep her hands cold in case he balked. “I do have extra pillows, you know. Next time, use ’em. That chair is not comfortable to sleep in, even for me. Much less your ancient bones.”
“Hah. So funny.”
“Any luck with whatever you were doing?”
Sergei shrugged, then winced when that movement set off more internal complaints. “By the time I fell asleep, I couldn’t have told you what I was looking at, much less looking for,” he admitted, unbuttoning his sweat-sticky shirt and taking it off. “I’m way out of my league when it comes to the supernatural stuff, you know that.”
“You’re learning, grasshopper. You’re learning. It’s just—”
“Tough if you’re not born to it,” he finished for her. “Yeah, I know.