Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [92]
Sergei could, though. He knew where she was every minute they were in the same room, the same apartment. He knew the color of her eyes, and the shape of her chin, and the way that she stood, the way she slept. And he knew that underestimating her was the worst mistake anyone in this room—himself included—could make. He held still, as though a cobra had him in her gaze, and prayed he would survive uneaten.
“Secrets. Whispered conversations. Threats. I find things like that…very interesting. So talk to me. Who are you, Felhim and Jorgunmunder?”
The muscle shifted uncomfortably, but nobody bothered to look at him. “It’s very simple, really,” Andre said. “I am an old…friend of your partner here, come by to see if he—and by extension you—would be interested in a business proposition.”
Sergei growled at the inclusion of Wren in his comments.
Wren raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing more. Encouraged, Andre went on.
“We work for an organization that has a vested interest in…ah, call it neutral good, if you have any familiarity with Dungeons and Dragons.”
“None whatsoever.” Wren rolled her eyes as she answered. Why did everyone always assume that Talents were all geeks and role-players? Why would you need pretend when you had the real thing?
“Ah.” He was a little nonplussed, but recovered fast, she’d give him that. “Then say that we are more interested in the long-term balance of the world, rather than righting specific wrongs, although we do take action on cases as needed.”
“And we are…?” She prompted him. Felhim looked at the redhead—Jorgunmunder, his name was—who made a “get on with it” gesture.
“The Silence.”
Like that was supposed to mean something.
“And…?”
“He never told you about the Silence.” Jorgunmunder laughed, a short, harsh bark. “Figures.”
He, meaning—“Sergei?”
Her partner, leaning against the wall, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair finger-combed until it was standing on end, refused to meet her eyes. Suddenly his unhappiness at the two men showing up made a lot more sense than just him declining a business deal. That was, technically, his job: to deal with offers. Except what was this group offering? Who were these guys, and what else had her partner been hiding from her?
“Mr. Didier has been an associate of ours for quite some time. It was he who first brought you to our attention, in fact.”
Wren didn’t trust this guy—he was too smooth, too sincere—but she wanted to hear him out. Mainly—she admitted to herself—because Sergei obviously didn’t want her anywhere near the others. And right now she was pissed at her partner. Royally, majorly pissed, so much so that she could feel the current stir within her involuntarily.
It wasn’t just that Sergei had kept secrets. She’d known there were depths in him, secrets, past stuff. Whatever. It wasn’t the fact that there were secrets that made her so angry. It was that someone else should be telling her about them. A betrayal of some vows she didn’t even know they’d taken. Her gut seized up, her eyes burned, and she wanted equally to hurt everything in her path, and hurt herself as well. Physical pain had to feel better than the glass shards tearing their way inside her, right?
The last time she had given in to that urge was when she was fourteen and Paul whatshisname had stolen her bike and then dared her to do something about it.
Then, she had caused the tires of the bike to blow out while he was riding away on her bicycle, sending him careening into traffic where a car hit him, leaving him with a concussion and a broken leg.
Sparks danced around her hands, which were clenched so tightly her close-trimmed nails were about to draw blood from her palms.
And somehow her partner knew she was close to breaking point, because there he was, moving like