Retrievers - Burning Bridges Part 8

"Hi. Hey there. Hey." Unlike her partner tonight, Wren was able to slip through the crowd tonight as though she were greased. People moved aside for her without seeing her, and the words went unheard into the white noise she seemed to generate; a side-effect of whatever it was that made her an effective Retriever. Someday she ought to volunteer for some kind of study or something, except the only people likely to make it worth her while would be the military, and thanks, but no thanks.

"Hey. Hi. Oh." A snippet of conversation caught her attention and she went into full listening mode, like a hound scenting game.

"You really think they can pull this off?"

"Not a chance. But at least we'll go down fighting."

"I sent my kids to their mom's."

"You hate that b.i.t.c.h."

"Yeah. But she loves the little brats. She'll keep 'em safe."

The voices rose out of the happy din, less pessimistic than casually resigned.

"I've been working on a new cantrip. Protective, but with a hook, gets triggered when I die, takes my killer with me."

"Nasty."

"Yeah. Made me feel slimy, making it. You want a copy?"

A long pause, then-"No. I'm just...call me a wuss, but if I'm gonna die, fine. I don't want to take anyone with me."

Wren made note of the two speakers, and moved on. That spell might be something of interest, if not to her-she was more the mind of the second speaker-then to the Troika.

"Hey, bebe! " A drunken reveler swung Wren around in a tipsy do-si-do, and then staggered off into the crowd. Wren laughed, shaking her head. She had no idea who that woman had been, and suspected the woman had no idea who she was, either. Just a drunken grope in a crowded bar.

Well, at least she'd been cute, in a sort of boozed-up way.

A voice came from another corner of the bar. "Okay, so you tell me what Howe is up to. Because Christ knows we're not getting the full story from our so-called leaders."

The voice was the next step beyond exhausted, and Wren naturally gravitated toward it, trying to see who it was speaking. If she knew them, that would be of interest. If she didn't-also of interest, but for a different reason.

"Valere!"

f.u.c.k.

The heavy hand on her shoulder kept her from engaging full "disappear into crowd" mode, anchoring her in place. She could disappear, if she wanted to, but it would be obvious now, and considerably rude.

"Yes?" She looked pointedly at the hand on her, noting the thick silver ring on the index finger, the black stone drawing the eye directly to it. On principle, Wren looked away. Anything that drew the eye that overtly was either a. nothing you wanted to look into or b. trying to distract you from something you should be trying to see.

"John Merrian."

The name meant nothing to her. She wasn't sure if it was supposed to or not.

"Just wanted to say, nice job at the Moot. You told us, and told us good."

John Merrian was a heavyset man, thick fingers leading to a thick arm, leading to a total lack of neck and a wide, rounded-jaw face topped by a brush-cut head of black hair. But his face was surprisingly kind, and the lines around his mouth were more from smiles than frowns.

"Keep it up. Getting our a.s.ses kicked is a good thing, no matter what the grumps say."

He released her, and moved back into the crowd. Caught in some sort of invisible stasis, Wren stared after him for a long instant, unable to move. "That was...strange, " she mumbled to herself finally. Sergei said there would be changes, people who would insist on seeing me, now, no matter what I did. I didn't believe him.

Mentally giving herself a shake, Wren kept moving, having to duck under the arm of a rather elongated Talent waving his beer around as he led a group in a rendition of "Auld Lang Syne" several hours early-for an instant, Wren felt the pang that came whenever something or someone reminded her of Lee, whose "Tree-taller" nickname was come by honestly.

Happy New Year, my friend, she thought. I hope, wherever you are, you're having a good laugh at what you started....

"Excuse me...hi, Happy New Year, yeah." A circuit around the bar, and she found herself in the corner, by the windows looking out onto the street, perched on a short wooden stool with a new beer in her hand and absolutely no idea who had bought it for her.

"Oh no doubt." A woman, off to her left. "If you place two spells, layered over each other, you don't double it, you increase the toxicity exponentially."

All right, that was interesting. And totally not what she was here to overhear, worse luck. Still, worth noting, since that was the second time she'd heard people discussing actual Talent-work. If one of the side effects of all this teamwork and playing-well-together was that Stuff got shared horizontally, among peers, and not just from mentor to student, the way things always had been done...

That could be as much a change to the Cosa as KimAnn's own personal ambitions regarding the Councils. For good or ill, Wren had no idea.

Time enough for that to come out in the wash, or whatever. a.s.suming there's a wash to do, when all this is done.

"Night, Wren. Happy New Year. Happy Truce." The voice broke into her semi-fugue working state, and she looked up in time to see a hand raised in pa.s.sing, someone shoving their arms into a coat and pulling a hat down over their head, exiting before she could react, or even determine who the speaker was and if she knew them.

That was the fourth time it had happened, tonight. Four times more than usual. No, five times more, because they were not only seeing her, they were reacting to her, and acting as though it was totally normal.

The question she found herself wondering was, did these people see her because they were now looking for her-or were they looking out for her? Was she really a positive, or did her newest, bestest friends have a guilty conscience prompting this new hyperawareness?

No way to tell. Not right now, anyway. So she noted down everyone who looked at her, rather than slipping past her-and made special note of those who looked at-and-then-past her. If that wasn't guilt, it was fear, and she was going to have those individuals looked closely at, first thing in the New Year.

"Time, gentlemen, ladies, lonejacks. Time!"

Someone was standing on the bar, clanging on something loud enough and discordant enough to cut through the noise and clamor.

"Time!"

Wren glanced around, but there was no clock on the wall, and in a crowd full of Talents there were no wrist.w.a.tches to glimpse at, either, not even a cheap one you might not mind having totally destroyed by current-contact.

"Say goodbye to the old year's s.h.i.+t, and in with the-"

"New s.h.i.+t!" someone yelled, to mixed laughter and boos.

"You're all a bunch of heathens and do not deserve this lovely toast I am about to make."

Wren placed the speaker now: Menachim. One of the few Pure Talents who was able to function past his fiftieth birthday without even-as far as anyone had been able to tell-a hint of wizzing. Pures were the total opposite of Nulls; they had nothing in their system that impaired current, which made them the most susceptible of all the Cosa to wizzing, or being overwhelmed by the current they used to the point of insanity.

"To my brothers, my sisters, my cousins, my loves, and those of you I can't stand."

By the time Menachim had gotten three words into his speech, the entire bar was silent. They could all feel the current rising, outside and within, triggered by the Pure's words and intent.

"To my brothers, my sisters, my cousins, my fellow warriors in the battle to come.

I give you courage. I give you faith. I give you strength. And I give you pride."

Almost unwilling, Wren felt all those things surge inside her, swelling her veins like current-fire, burning out the doubts, the hesitations, the what-ifs and why-nots. Even knowing what he was doing, technically, she was still swept up by it. By the expressions of the faces around her, she wasn't alone.

"We are the Cosa Nostradamus. We are the Weird-bloods. We are the protectors of our fatae cousins, and their students, as well. The world does not dance to our tune, but gives us music that we might dance with it.

"So dance, my brothers, my sisters, my beloveds. Dance. For tomorrow...we will have hangovers that could kill a horse!"

To that, Wren could and did raise her gla.s.s. As she did so, there was the sound of heavy thudding bursts starting outside, as people let off firecrackers a few minutes ahead of the yearly fireworks display over the East River. Madmen, everyone out there, crus.h.i.+ng together in the cold, just to see some sparklies. All right, they were lovely, impressive, totally unmagical sparklies that often rivaled Gandalf's much-vaunted fireworks, but the crowd was too much for her. She preferred seeing in the New Year indoors, a good drink and good cheer and...She scanned the room, and spotted her partner, coats over one arm, coming toward her with intent written all over his face.

Suddenly, the desire to bring in the New Year properly, overran any thought of sticking around to do any more eavesdropping.

Sergei rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the haze to clear from his eyes.

He heard the drawer of her nightstand open, and then the cool weight of a tube of Bactine landed on his open chest.

"You didn't burn me, " he said mildly. Not, he added to himself, anywhere the Bactine could reach. He didn't have to go to a doctor to know that his internal organs were taking a beating every time they had s.e.x. It was the same thing that happened whenever she grounded excess current in him, used him to store power until she needed it. Only here, now, he didn't have the excuse of her safety, her effectiveness, to justify it.

His fault, purely his fault, for encouraging her to let go entirely. She was already starting to pull back, and he couldn't blame her, even as his body craved the touch of her current.

The problem was, his o.r.g.a.s.m, never mild, was three times as intense when the surge of current that accompanied her own climax "leaked" into him.

She rolled onto her side, and cuddled against him, arms folded, her head resting on his chest so that she could feel him breathing. He wasn't much for post-coital cuddling, but his skin p.r.i.c.kled, antic.i.p.ating any leftover current.

"And even if I did, you couldn't stop, could you?"

"I..."I don't know. And he couldn't lie to her.

"f.u.c.k. All right. That's it."

"No more s.e.x?" He knew he sounded like a kicked puppy, and they both let out nervous laughter at the tone.

"Never been a fan of cutting off my nose to spite my face. I'm a Talent. I can control this. And you don't tell me any more ever to let go. Not ever."

She was so fierce, so strong, that he could only smile. Her mentor had nicknamed her "wren" because she was as innocuous, as inconspicuous as that tiny brown bird, but Sergei saw her as a tiger, tawny-striped in the gra.s.s and fierce as any great cat could be.

"Don't you smile at me, mister, " she warned, but he could tell from her voice that she was about to fall into her usual post-coital snooze so he merely pressed a kiss to the top of her head, rearranged them both so that she wasn't resting on his current-battered kidneys, and let himself drift off into sleep with her. He couldn't help it: s.e.x made him sleepy. It was a good thing his Wrenlet wasn't one for company after s.e.x, either. At least not the awake kind. She fell asleep before he did, half the time. Compatibility was a wonderful thing.

There would be an entire city filled with problems for them to face tomorrow, with the dawn of a New Year. For tonight, this morning, it was just them, and a warm bed, and the sweat of fabulous s.e.x drying on their bodies.

He couldn't think of anything more he might want.

Wren felt her partner's breathing even out, his heartbeat slow into the deep patterns that meant he was totally, absolutely relaxed. She liked to believe that she was the only one to ever see him like this, that no one else who had ever shared his bed was privileged to be so trusted.

Trust.

Such a simple word. Such a harsh sticking point. She loved him, she trusted him...but she wasn't as sure as he was that all the ties had been cut with the Silence. Not after his b.u.m's rush at Rock Center. She knew him, knew the deep pockets and hidden doors of his personality, even if she wasn't entirely sure what lurked behind them. She knew him, maybe even better than he was willing to know himself. But how do you accuse the man you love of keeping secrets in his brain, even from himself? Especially since she already worried about the damage she was doing to him, simply by being close to him.

She could control herself during s.e.x. She had to. Because she no longer trusted him to be able to say stop, if there was over rush.

Over rush. When current overflowed, overrode the ability of a Talent to control it. In small doses over long periods of time, it drove Talents to wizzing, madness. Fast, furious...It killed.

And it would kill a Null even faster, leaving nothing behind.

It was a long time before Wren was able to sleep.

Dawn was breaking across the gla.s.s-and-brick buildings when the last stragglers left the bar, less drunk than punchy with exhaustion. And one figure wasn't drunk at all, although the stagger and sway was picture-perfect, blending in with the others without hesitation.

As soon as they turned the block and separated for different subway lines, that one figure held back, ostentatiously looking up and down the street for something.

"You wanna join us?" one of her companions offered. "Gonna grab breakfast at J. P's."

The pet.i.te redhead shook her head. "Nah, gotta find a working pay phone, check in with the boss, make sure there's no emergency he needed me to sit on."

"h.e.l.l of a way to start the New Year."

"Yeah, well, work waits for no hangover." The others laughed, and went on their way. A phone booth spotted, she jogged across the street, hoping against hope that the phone would actually be intact and working.

Luck was with her; unlike most of the pay phones in Manhattan, this one was still being serviced on a regular enough basis to be working, not vandalized. Feeding coins and punching ten numbers in, she waited until the phone rang three times, then hung up.

A minute later, the phone rang, and she picked it up.

"One hundred seven people, estimated ninety-four lonejack. No Council. No fatae that I was able to discern, although some might have been pa.s.sing, in the crowd. Limited use of current, save for an end-of-year blessing and at least one observed instance of water being turned into cheap wine...No sir, that is not a joke. Well, it is a joke, a sort of parlor trick. It makes a mediocre white zinfandel-like wine, that's all...No sir. Not amusing at all, sir."

She actually thought it was funny as h.e.l.l. Would be more impressive if they could turn it into bourbon, though.

"Was solicited four times for my opinion on the situation, lectured twice on the evils of the Double-Quad's plans and saw one argument over the situation break into physical conflict, which was ended by the waitress dumping a beer down the back of one partic.i.p.ant. Overall, the mood is tense, but antic.i.p.atory. Estimated eighty-three percent think that they have a fighting chance to run the vigilantes out of town. Seventy-four percent are willing to settle for a truce. Somewhere between twenty-five and forty percent still think that the vigilantes aren't the real problem, but a smoke screen, and that the Council is what needs to be addressed, first."

She listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, and dipped her head in acceptance, even though the speaker couldn't see her.

"Yes, sir. I have noted the names.... Yes sir...No sir, I did not...Yes sir."

Her hand trembled on the receiver, and she, noting it, stilled it through sheer force of will. The current whispered in her brain, rea.s.suring her. There was no cause for fear. There was no cause for concern. She worked for the greater good, for the betterment of all, and her master would not allow her to come to harm in the commission of these duties.

The fluttering protest died, smothered under her conditioning, and she hung up the receiver, suddenly exhausted and wanting only to go home, and go to bed.

Eight.

On the first business day of the New Year, Sergei stood outside his baby, looking at it with the eyes of a proud, if somewhat still-astonished, parent.

He'd found it almost by accident, walking home one evening, thirteen years and seven months before. Then, the street had teetered on the border between seedy and smart. He'd paid too much money for what it was, cheap for what it would become.

The neighborhood was originally cheek-by-jowl warehouses, solid st.u.r.dy buildings of red brick; cla.s.sic New Amsterdam architecture. Over the decades gentrification had crept in, updating old s.p.a.ces into trendy boutiques and sidewalk cafes with overpriced wine lists. Bad for rents, good for luring high-ticket browsers.

He had replaced the original clear gla.s.s front with a stained gla.s.s design. The deep blues, reds and greens looked like abstract art from a distance, but if you came closer, they gave the effect of an under seascape. He had commissioned the piece from one of the first artists he had showcased, a young man who had gone on to larger showings. It cut down on his ability to display works, but gave him the advantage of individuality.