Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [95]
“If you’d be so kind.” Her words fell into the air between them. She had meant it to be sarcastic, but they just sounded…tired. God but she was tired.
“The Silence was founded in the 1900s by a bunch of white men with guilty consciences.” His voice was the same casual, slightly singsong voice he used to brief her on jobs. “The name’s pretentious but obvious—they are silent workers, responding to those who cannot otherwise call for help. Quote endquote. The agency—society, call it whatever you want—has expanded over the years—I’m not sure how large it is now but there are offices in at least seven countries that I know of. Probably more. Primary mission—to right wrongs. Secondary mission—to keep wrongs from being committed.”
She snorted. “And who defined what was wrong and how it should be righted?”
He shook his head. “You’re going to lecture someone else on comparative morality? Genevieve—”
“Right. Nose duly slapped. Go on.”
“None of the founding members had any Talent at all, but they like to recruit those who do. Only they don’t call it that—they say ‘magic,’ and don’t sneer at the term. A number of the wrongs they right have to do with misused powers, to the point where it’s become a bit of a specialized sideline.”
“Ah. And you…?” She sat down on the sofa opposite him, leaning forward to rest her chin in the cup of her hands, elbows resting on her knees.
“Me.” He sighed. “There are layers to the Silence. You don’t get to see the inner workings, ever. I was being groomed as a Handler, the liaison between home office and an agent in the field.” He paused, then let the other shoe drop. “Specializing in Talented agents. Minor ones, all they could get, although at the time they didn’t know why, didn’t know about the Council.”
“At the time.” She absorbed the dual blows, bit back the obvious comeback. “And then…?”
He sighed, met her gaze squarely. “And then I woke up one morning and didn’t give a damn anymore. I wanted out. And then I got into a car crash, met an astonishingly Talented young thief in the making who helped me complete that one last mission, and I walked. No regrets.”
His eyes were clear, his gaze steady. Wren knew there was more to it…but then, she’d always known there was more to Sergei than what he showed. Not many gallery owners carry a handgun, or know how to drop a tail in city traffic. Her own fault if she’d never wanted to probe too deeply, right?
He reached across the coffee table, took her hands in his own. She hadn’t realized how cold her fingers were until his much warmer ones enfolded them. “You don’t have to make any decisions this instant, Zhenechka. Think about it. Sleep on it. They’ve been waiting for years. No matter how urgent they claim this particular case is, they’ll wait a little while longer.”
“And you?”
Their gazes met, and the tears she’d been resisting were echoed by the ones glittering unshed in his eyes. “I’ll be here,” he said. “Whatever you decide.”
sixteen
The woman holding court had been beautiful in the fresh-faced, athletic way when she was younger. Now her face held a kind of regal authority that was more rare and more impressive than beauty. She disdained a desk, making herself comfortable in a brocade armchair. On one side a laptop rested on a mahogany tray-arm that swung away and back at her slightest touch.
The rest of the room was likewise decorated, a rich mahogany server taking up most of one wall, heavy bookcases the second, and a sofa and love seat placed under the large glass windows that showed the skyline of Chicago.
Oliver Frants sat on the cream-on-cream brocade sofa across the room from her, equally at ease. His well-manicured hands held a coffee cup with practiced delicacy, and his suit looked as pressed and sharp as if he had just shrugged himself into it, rather than surviving a ninety-minute plane ride after a long, difficult day in the office. Denise Macauley sat beside him. She had not been offered coffee, and her hands rested limply by her side. Her face was placid, pleasant-looking, as though