Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [93]
“Get out.” Calm but cold. And maybe not so calm underneath.
Jorgunmunder made a dismissive gesture. “Didier, I know you’re upset but—”
“Get out!”
It was a roar this time, and the redhead took an involuntary step backward. “We’ll call you….”
Felhim edged Jorgunmunder toward the door, one hand on his companion’s elbow. “You’ll call us,” he said calmly. “When you’ve made your decision. Ms. Valere. Sergei.” And the door closed softly behind them.
There was silence in the apartment. Sergei stared at the seascape watercolor on the wall over the sofa. He had bought the painting with his first paycheck, too many years ago to think about. The artist had gone on to command seven times the sum for one of her pieces. He had the eye for talent. And Talent. It had always been a double-edged sword.
“Wren…”
“No. Just…no. Don’t…don’t talk to me right now.” She glared at him. “Arrggghhh.” It was a long, strangled noise, then she stormed out of the room. He could hear her in the kitchen, opening cabinets and slamming then again while The sound of glass-ware, the refrigerator opening and closing.
She was angry; well duh, to use a phrase Wren had thankfully grown out of. He’d if not lied to her, then certainly omitted information. And possibly endangered her as well, although she couldn’t know that. Or maybe she was angry because he was withholding a job possibility from her? But that was his job, to winnow through the offers and only bring her the ones he thought were worthwhile. So she couldn’t be angry about that, could she?
Maybe he could have done things differently. But it had made sense at the time, keeping the parts of his life separate. He hadn’t wanted to be Softwing anymore, hadn’t wanted that life anymore. There’s always a price to pay. His own words, twisted but still true. He only hoped the cost of this revelation wasn’t more than he could afford.
He just had to trust her. And wait.
It didn’t take more than ten minutes.
“How long?” She stormed back into the main room and stood there, one hand on her hip, the other holding a Diet Sprite, glaring at him. “How long have you been tied up in this, whatever this is, and not told me?”
Oh. Sergei rubbed his palms against the fabric of his slacks. Whatever he said, she was going to be unhappy.
“Sergei? Come on.”
“You never wondered why a mage wanted me dead?” Their very first meeting, when Wren had used her Talent to save him from a car accident caused by a mage seeking to hide some nasty doings.
“Yeah, yeah. You were poking around in his business. Mages get peevy about that, especially when they’re not being good citizens.” She paused. “Since then? Since before then. You bastard!” Sergei had been prepared, but the soda can still nicked his ear as he ducked, and the stream of Diet Sprite splattered across his shirt. He controlled his instinctive reaction, keeping his hands loose and still by his side. Any movement right now would be risky. He said a quick prayer of thanks that Margot, Wren’s mother, had instilled in her daughter a firm grip on her temper, and risked a glance at his partner.
She was seething. Literally. The nearest lamp flickered and then the bulb popped, the glass breaking with a faint crack. Sweat tracked under his collar, and he suspected that if he could see current, he would be close to wetting himself. Stay calm, Zhenechka. Stay calm and we’ll both make it through this intact. Normally he could talk her down. But he’d never been the target before. Not like this. He could feel his little boat not only rocking but capsizing under his feet.
“Ten years. Ten years you’ve been working with these people…”
“No.” He risked interrupting her, to head off that misunderstanding before it got worse. “Not with them. I’ve been inactive—I haven’t worked any jobs for them in almost eight years. Not since we went full-time.” He willed her to hear him, hear what he was saying.
She did, he could see it in her expression, but she wasn’t cutting him any slack. And her fists were still clenched.
“Why? Why couldn’t you tell me?