Blood from Stone

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “KimAnn hasn’t been heard from in over a year,” Wren said, just as quietly, as though speaking her name might summon the woman from whatever depth of hell she’d been sunk to. “I think that the Council proper—” the entire organization as a whole “—took care of her for us. She was getting too big for her Ferragamos, and they hate that. Anyway that’s a line I’m not sure they’d take—it’s too easy for someone snooping around to jump from knowing about lonejacks to knowing about the Council and then the fat’s really in the fire. We’ve survived this long by not drawing attention—even KimAnn wasn’t crazy enough to do that.

  “Feds or local?” she asked her partner. “The local cops have always had a little more know—”

  “Feds,” he said definitely. He was sitting in a straight-back chair, having turned it around and straddled it, his arms resting on the back, his long legs out in front of him. His hair—that dark, wavy hair that she used to love running her fingers through, was streaked with gray, and cut too short to properly rumple, but her fingers still itched to tangle in it. Like any big, dangerous cat, you always wanted to pet him.

  Inappropriate thoughts, she told herself with an inward smirk. Focus on the problem, not the petting.

  “Federal’s not good. Not good at all.” She did not have warm-’n’-fuzzies about federal-level knowledge. Like Council membership, she left that for those with a taste for game-playing.

  “It’s not the Silence,” Sergei said now, beating both of them to the question neither wanted to ask. “I checked.”

  His former employers had tried to wipe out magic in the world, starting with the users based in New York City. They had been wiped out instead.

  Not wiped out, Wren corrected herself. You don’t kill a hydra with one swoop, and you don’t destroy a hundred-year-old organization with one defeat, no matter how hard it hit them. In some form, under some other name, they’re still out there, somewhere. Just not now, not here, not our problem. Yet. Like the New York Council, the Silence had been led by a single person with ambition beyond what he already owned. Like KimAnn, he, too, had disappeared.

  Unlike KimAnn, Wren suspected Duncan was very much dead. She had no proof…except the way Sergei slept more soundly at night, now.

  That was enough for her.

  “The fact that it’s some stranger, some new crisis, does not make me feel any better about all this. In case anyone was wondering.” P.B.’s voice was dry as a morning hangover, and about as brittle. His ears were back against his skull: like a cat’s ears, that meant he was feeling defensive.

  “New day, new troubles,” Wren said, parroting one of her mother’s refrains. “So we have a Fed on our tails, asking questions at a particularly suspicious and inauspicious moment. Assuming the worst, ’cause it usually is, what sort of questions? I mean, are we talking about ‘have you seen this demon?’ or ‘are you interested in a million-dollar reward for bringing me their ears and tails?’”

  “I don’t have a tail,” P.B. said.

  “It’s a saying,” she told him in exasperation. What was it with Fatae and tails, anyway?

  “I know. But I don’t have a tail, not really.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake…”

  Before they could get into a stress-driven wrangle about Fatae prejudices against the tailed, Sergei came back with the details.

  “He’s showing the photos around—and it’s only a drawing of you, P.B., although reportedly pretty accurate—and asking if anyone knows anything about any of us. No specifics. Danny didn’t sound too worried, but…”

  “He’s on a fishing expedition, this Fed,” Wren said, not sure if that was a good thing or not.

  “I think so, yes,” her partner agreed. “But the question is, what is he fishing for? Is it tied into the recent events here in the city, or P.B.’s letter, somehow, or one of our older cases, or something, God help us, we don’t know about yet?”

  P.B. looked at Wren, who looked at Sergei, who looked at P.B. who looked up at the ceiling to indicate his total lack of an answer.

  Sergei turned back to his partner. “Wren, do you think this is something that should be taken back to the Tri-Com?”

  “No.” Her reaction was immediate and definite; so much so that she had it out of her mouth before she could think about it. The guys both looked taken aback, so she paused to consider why she felt that way, trying to explain it to them.

  “If I keep running to them…they’re used to me dealing with the big nasty shit. If this turns out to be nothing, or just localized to us three, then they’ll think I was crying wolf. And that would be seriously bad for my reputation.”

  It was a logical explanation, and had the benefit of being true. But it wasn’t her real reason. The real reason, not-so-hidden deep in her gut, was the fear that the more contact she had with them, the more the members would think about trying to rope her back in. The lonejacks were still not as bad as the Council, they still remembered that life was every woman for herself and watch out only for those you choose to care for, but the entire idea of the Truce Board first and now the Tri-Com was scratching away at that independence, and it made her uneasy, even more than some unknown crazy person from P.B’s past, or some unknown Federal nose.

  No more. No matter how many tendrils she felt wrapping around her ankles, pulling her back in.

  “You know what?” she said abruptly, uncurling off the sofa in a single smooth motion and sitting upright. “This could be nothing. We don’t know, and we can’t do anything, and I’m not going to worry about it.”

  “Where are you going?” Sergei asked, no, demanded, his voice sharpening.

  She was slipping her shoes back on and lacing them up. When she finished, she looked up at her partner and shrugged. “The gym, first. I’ve been crap at keeping up and it’s going to bite me, if I’m not careful. Then I was going to go to the store and actually buy groceries, since someone used the last of the eggs for breakfast when I wasn’t home. And then I thought I might go break into a few houses, just to keep in practice.”

  They might have thought she was kidding, except they knew her better.

  She thought Sergei was going to protest, but instead he nodded. “Good idea,” he said. “When I know more, I’ll let you know.”

  Amazing how those words eased the tightness in her chest. She shouldn’t have doubted him. That was how the partnership had been established. Why screw with the part that still worked?

  She grabbed her coat, and leaned over to give Sergei a rough but thorough kiss. “Dinner tonight?” After recent events, the two of them were keeping her on a tight make-sure-she-eats-food-watch. She didn’t have any basis—or desire—to complain.

  “I’m too busy to cook anything. I’ll meet you at Marianna’s, sevenish?”

  She grinned in agreement, flicked a finger in farewell to P.B., and was out the door.

  In the silence after the door closed: “Is she okay?”

  Sergei gave the demon a sour look. “Why are you asking me?”

  “Don’t start with that shit,” P.B. said, equally annoyed. “There are things she tells you, and things she tells me, and if we don’t pool that, we’re going to be out-classed and outgunned for the rest of our lives.”

  Sergei Didier was well into his forties. He was a former covert operative for an even more covert organization that he had, by their standards, betrayed; had established a second career as a successful legitimate businessman, and an equally successful third career as the manager of a not-technically-illegal-because-nobody-knew-to-make-it-illegal Retriever partnership. He should not have been shut down by a midget in a bear suit, no matter the midget was apparently over a hundred years old, and had claws and teeth to match the fur.

  Some people might look at P.B. and only see the physical. Sergei had always been aware of the brain inside. That didn’t mean he had to like it being used against him.

  Even if he was being a shit.

  “She’s still not sleeping well. But I don’t think she
knows.”

  “Nightmares?”

  Sergei nodded, feeling the tension of those nights creeping up on him again, of waking at three in the morning to the sound of his lover crying in her sleep, begging for someone not to go. Or, worse, the morning when he woke to a bundle of current in his arms, her skin crackling with so much power even he could feel it, his own skin craving for the touch. When she was awake, control had the upper hand. But in her dreams, the dark abyss could reach her, entice her. The siren call, Doherty called it. The desire to reach for just that much more current, and be damned the risk to system and sanity.

  “You think the doc could help her with that?”

  It was the first indication the demon had given that he knew Sergei was in counseling, and the human couldn’t even find it in himself to feel annoyed or invaded. He was getting therapy because Wren needed him to deal with the shit inside, if she was going to keep him, and anything that involved Wren involved the demon, as well. Sergei didn’t like it, but he didn’t try to deny it anymore. That had gotten him exactly nothing except a bad case of, he was told, useless and pointless jealousy.

  “I doubt it.” He got up from the chair and headed into the kitchen, his voice easily carrying back to the living area. “I’m not sure it helps much with anything, except giving me a place where I can put my fist through the wall periodically.”

  “Useful, that,” P.B. agreed. “So the heart-to-heart gutspill’s not doing anything?”

  Sergei put the kettle on to boil, and got down a mug and the tea canister. He measured out the black leaves and set the infuser into the mug, then waited patiently for the water to be ready.

  “That a no, a yes, or a mind your own damned business, fur ball?” P.B. asked from the kitchen’s arched doorway.

  “It’s not hurting,” Sergei said, not looking at the other male. “I don’t know if it’s helping. But it shows I’m trying.”

  “Yeah.” The demon shook his head, and showed sharp white teeth in a sudden grin. “Used to be, to win a girl, humans would go kill something. Now you go sit in a comfy room and talk about your feelings. That’s civilization for ya.”

  The water started to boil, and Sergei was saved from having to make a comeback by the whistle that filled the chrome and tile kitchen.

  Across town, the day’s judgment was that it had been long, irritating, and filled with penny-ante bullshit. In other words, your usual Tuesday for New York’s Finest. It was almost end of shift, and there was one last transport to make before it was time for booze and a snooze.

  “You think you’re being a tough guy, huh?” The cop, a ten-year veteran who had spent all of those years working the streets, didn’t push his prisoner out the door, but the manhandling made it clear that, were he the type to rough up a prisoner, the prisoner would be in no position to prevent it. The cop walking in front of them laughed. “He’s not tough. He’s already working a deal. Smart guy, figures the longer he holds out, the better the terms.” They reached the squad car, and the speaker opened the back door, moving out of the way so that his partner could ease the prisoner into the seat without any unfortunate bruises.

  This had not been part of the plan, but the prisoner remained quiet, as he had since they caught him, and throughout his incarceration, even when his lawyer didn’t show. He had been told that he would be taken care of, and he trusted his employers. And if they failed to come through…well, he had a plan of his own, worst-case scenario. He felt no desire to share it with these two yahoos, however.

  “Only problem is,” the second cop continued, “we’re not an airline, we don’t up the offers to empty out the seats. More of you scum off the streets, better our job gets. So hold your breath all you want, pal. Won’t break my heart.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The first cop turned at the voice, his face dropping into pleasant “dealing with the public” lines even as his hand rested close to his holster, just in case.

  By the time he had finished turning, he was already falling, his knees giving way under the low-handed blow. His partner shoved the prisoner into the car, slamming the door shut to lock the thief in while he dealt with this new threat. He started to shout for help, the precinct door only a few yards away, but never got the chance. A hypo was jammed into his bicep, and he joined his partner on the pavement, down and out for the count. The assailant stepped over the prone bodies, kneeling briefly to inject the first victim with another hypo, tucking both empty vials into a plastic bag and dropping it into a black leather briefcase. The thief, who had been watching all this from within the locked squad car, turned his face up to the newcomer, hope mixed with anticipation and a hint of fear.

  The hope turned to excitement as the newcomer reached for the car door, opening it and allowing the prisoner to escape. Finally.

  “You told them nothing?”

  The former prisoner held out his hands for his rescuer to unlock the cuffs. “I was hired because I am a professional,” he said, indignant now that things were happening. “I don’t roll on my employers. You don’t last in this business if you’re scared of a little jail time.”

  “True.” The cuffs came off, and were dropped onto the ground. “Come with me.”

  The thief stepped over the cops the way his rescuer did, not being quite as careful not to tread on fingers as he did so. They walked down the street, casual and slow, to all intents and purposes a well-dressed lawyer and more raggedly dressed client out for a stroll before their turn in the courthouse.

  “You failed.”

  “I know.” He was, as he had said, a professional. Part of being a professional was owning when you had screwed up. “If you wish me to make a second attempt, there will be no additional charge.” Normally a client would merely have posted the bail money, if they did anything at all. He had expected better treatment from this employer, and being broken out in such a clean and bloodless manner boded well for a continuing relationship. He was smart enough not to want to screw that up, if so.

  “No. Your services will not be needed on that project again. However, I would like to discuss another service you could provide to us.”

  “Of course.”

  They turned the corner, walking away from the busy streets around the precinct house, and headed into a quieter, less-inquisitive area of town, even as the injured officers were being discovered, and an alarm was raised for the missing prisoner.

  “I don’t have time for a session.” They don’t have set appointments; he stops by when there’s a moment. Joe’s not in active practice; he teaches, and sees very few patients beyond his students. The office, a shared space, is more for tax purposes than anything else.

  “But you still stopped by. Have you thought more about what we discussed last time?”

  “We didn’t discuss anything last time. You shoved me into saying that I blamed her. But I don’t.”

  “No?”

  “No.” He doesn’t. Except he does. Not for the addiction—he hadn’t known about the pleasure-pain kink before, but it was in him, was part of him, and she wasn’t to blame for bringing it out. He didn’t even blame her for not being able to say no to him; how could he be upset about someone who cared enough about him to want him to be happy?

  “Then why did you say that you did?”

  “Because I do.”

  He knows it doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense.

  “Is it blame? Or anger?”

  Sergei stares at Doherty, and his tense features relax just a little. “I thought mind reading didn’t actually exist, outside of stories.”

  “You knew better than that. I’m not reading your mind, just your body. You’re angry at her. Why?”

  “Because she’s what she is, and I am what I am, and there’s nothing to be done about it. There’s no point to any of it, because nothing’s ever going to change.” He hadn’t understood, before talking to P.B. He still didn’t understand. But at least now he knew.

  “You could leave her.”
/>   For the first time ever in that office, Sergei laughed.

  thirteen

  “I have something for you,” the old man said.

  They were seated at a white-clothed table in Eddy’s, a very exclusive restaurant midtown, where the waiters knew your first name but never used it, and the wine had its own level for storage. Sergei had eaten there three times in his entire life, and each time was with the old man across the table from him.

  “I assumed you had,” he replied calmly, making careful but appreciative work of the pear and foie gras appetizer in front of him. His companion never called except when he had something, and never spoke of it until after the formalities of ordering their meals and wine had been observed.

  The old man wasn’t a Talent, and he didn’t, like Sergei, have ties to the Cosa of either personal or business nature. What he did have was money, more than he could count, and contacts everywhere, in every conceivable organization. That, and a fascination with the supernatural that bordered on the obsessive. Sergei had been the one to confirm the man’s suspicions that the Fatae were real, and that the girl he had loved and lost, years before, had indeed been one.

  Sergei wasn’t sure if he had done the old man any favors, but it seemed to be working to their benefit, so far. The call from him this morning just after Wren had left his apartment, a summons to lunch, was proof of that.

  “I have been hearing whispers of a group—small, but well-funded—that is looking for something of a physical and yet mystical nature. A philosopher’s stone, of sorts, but one that breathes and bleeds.”

  Sergei calmly cut, lifted and chewed his appetizer, then took a sip of his wine. An Italian white, and surprisingly good. He made a mental note of the producer to buy for his own cellar, if it wasn’t wildly overpriced retail; Wren might like it.

  “A philosopher’s stone? And one that lives?” His tone was politely dubious. Not everything the old man came up with was useful. Having massive amounts of money and knowing everyone worth knowing didn’t make you not a crackpot. It just ensured that nobody called you a crackpot, not even behind your back.