Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [84]
“Not quite that bad. But close. Radio stations are way sensitive, Wren. Way sensitive.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Five or six years ago she’d had to retrieve something from a building next to a power station. When it went bad and she had to pull down current hard and fast…well, that power grid had needed overhauling anyway.
“So, what’ve you been up to?”
And that was another reason Lee was so refreshing. Unlike most of the Cosa, when he said he wasn’t interested in gossip, he meant it. And when he was interested in you, it meant, well, that he was interested in you.
“Job turned scurvy,” she said glumly. “So, you know anything about a guy named Frants, or maybe a Talent who had a mad-on for him?” So much for butterfly wings, she heard Sergei sigh in the back of her head.
Lee stirred his coffee with maybe a little too much deliberation.
“Ah Lee, not you, too? What? Did I step on someone’s toes? I checked with all the usual suspects beforehand, I swear I did.”
“No, nothing like that. At least, I don’t think so. You know me, Wren, I’m not exactly in the loop.”
“Then what is it? Lee, I swear, I’m getting the cold shoulder from everyone. Even you. What did I do?”
Lee looked at her, unhappiness plain in his expression. “It’s not you, Wren. It’s just…Council’s been squirrelier than usual, last month or so. They’ve come down hard on their own people—they shut whats his name, Blackie, over in Staten Island down entirely—mage-locked him in his house for an entire week!—and I think everyone just expects them to come down hard on us, too.” Us being lonejacks. “And, well…odds are you’re going to be the first they come down hard on. As an example.”
Wren sighed. “Great. Round up the usual suspects. Why me?”
Lee took the question seriously. “Because you’re good. The best, not to feed that ego of yours too much. And because you hang with everyone. Lonejack, fatae, wizzarts…you’ve even got friends who are mages.”
“One,” Wren corrected. “And I’m never really sure if we’re on speaking terms from day to day.”
“She spoke for you back during the Fleet Week debacle.”
“I seem to remember a few other people at this table being involved with that.” Not their finest hour. A prank gone out of hand, and people got hurt. They’d both sworn off pranking after that, otherwise Lee would have been the first suspect in that tag attempt earlier in the week.
“Point is, they remember you. And now you go and get involved in something the Council’s watching—yeah, I’ve heard about Frants. He hired a lonejack ’cause he’s already too far in debt to the Council, rumor says.”
Wren nodded. She’d heard the same thing, doing her prelim research. She had run across a lot of rumors. Half of them contradicting the other half and the half that remained usually weren’t true anyway.
“So suddenly nobody wants to talk to me, ’cause they’re scared the Council’s going to think they’re linked to me and treat ’em to the same heavy fist?” Could that have been what the tag was about, someone looking to take out a potential problem? But why? And who?
Lee shrugged. “Lonejacks,” he said. “We’re a selfish, self-centered bunch.” He patted her hand. “If it makes any difference, everyone, well, mostly everyone respects you. We just don’t want to be thought of as…in the same league of trouble as you.”
“So everyone will send flowers, but nobody will come to my funeral, huh? And you’re not afraid of being overheard telling me all this?” Her stomach did a slow roil, the acid from the coffee churning into full-blown indigestion.
He shrugged, taking his hand back. “I’m an artist. All my current goes into my work.” His sculptures had been described as “electrifying” by one critic. Since he actually