Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [88]
Not heaven, not hell, not even the endless turning of some judgmental wheel—forever held suspended within his tomb, the energy of his death sustaining the spell until the structure it was tied to—His structure! His creation!—crumbled and fell.
But he was out, now. Free of that damned crypt, if not of this world. But that was all right. That was better than all right.
He stopped, something inside him orienting itself, and then he nodded sharply, and changed direction, this time heading south. He knew what had happened. He knew where to go.
fifteen
They were waiting in his apartment when he came home from the gallery that night. Two of them, high-rent suits and subdued silk ties, shoes polished and haircuts perfect. A chorus of Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” went through Sergei’s brain before he ruthlessly clamped down on it. Now was no time for whimsy.
Their timing was, to put it bluntly, horrible. And it didn’t help to acknowledge that he had brought it down on himself; going to Douglas had started a chain of inevitability, this visitation the logical progression from the phone call the night before. Client, Council, Vigilantes, Silence. Disparate threads; somehow becoming a web. A large, nasty, sticky, mostly still unseen web.
The problem was, it had been a long day on top of damn little sleep, and waking up in Wren’s desk chair, which had been adjusted for someone a full foot shorter than he was, hadn’t helped his mood any. He was in no shape to deal with a confrontation. Not now. Not today. Not yet.
But they weren’t giving him any choice.
“So much for locks. Or common courtesy.” Sergei kept his voice dry, ironic. Professional. He locked the rage, the fear deep down inside, put on his very best mask and closed the apartment door behind him. I’m going to get an ulcer.
“We waited outside for an hour. I think your doorman was about to call the police. So we decided discretion was the better part of not being arrested.” The older of the two, the familiar face, had made himself at home on the long brown leather sofa. The other, standing behind him like a soldier at parade rest, was an unknown. Insurance, Sergei decided. Not muscle—the Silence wasn’t that foolhardy, to force the matter like that. But a guarantee that whatever happened it would be two to one. A compliment, if you took stock in things like that. He was disgusted to discover that he still did.
“And leaving a note to say you’d stopped by never crossed your mind,” he murmured, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it in the closet. Dusk had already settled, and he touched the control pad that turned on a scattering of lamps throughout the space. His apartment was an open space; no alcoves or half walls a shadow might hide against. What had started out early in his career as paranoia had evolved, over the years, to a personal preference. One wide archway led to the kitchen, while a metal spiral staircase led to the sleeping alcove. The fourth and seventh steps creaked.
Sergei tugged off his tie and looped it over the staircase’s railing, slipping off his oxblood loafers and leaving them on the floor beside the lowest step, dress socks following, tucked inside the shoes for easier carrying. He kept his back to the two men all the while, a dual insult; “I’m not afraid of you” coupled with “you’re not important enough to deal with first.” But his pulse was too fast, and he was wishing he had gone to the cocktail party he’d been invited to that night instead of coming directly home. Standing around dealing with enforced laughter and unwanted innuendoes would have been preferable to this.
“A note might be lost, or disregarded. Face-to-face, it was felt, was…wiser.”
Sergei straightened, spent a moment staring up the staircase, contemplating. Counting heartbeats until he felt reasonably balanced,