Pack of Lies [2]

by Laura Anne Gilman

  Sharon visibly bit back an instinctive riposte—even she didn’t snark back to Stosser during business hours.

  Nifty started to say something, but someone must have kiboshed him, because Sharon went on uninterrupted. “More like it tells us how strongly the person being tested believes what they’re saying, or if they have doubts.”

  “Less truth and more veracity? Conveying truth, rather than absolute truth?” Venec leaned forward, like he’d just scented something particularly juicy. That was what we’d been discussing, in the break room: believed truths. What was he seeing that I wasn’t?

  Sharon nodded. “Yeah. Exactly. And before you ask, yes, I’m pretty sure I can fine-tune it so we can tell the difference between fact and faith, but first I need to figure out exactly how accurate that fine-tuning can get.”

  “What, you didn’t test it?” I asked, surprised. Sharon was methodical and Nifty was thorough. For them to let it go without a test…

  “We did, but…well, in order to really test it we need an accurate benchmark, and…”

  Suddenly the looks I’d been getting from my coworkers since I got back made sense. “And you needed somebody who is besettingly open, not to say distressingly honest, to get that benchmark, huh?”

  Sharon looked at Nifty, who looked at Nick, who looked up at the ceiling as though disavowing any and all knowledge of any such conversation. “Well. Yeah.”

  I sighed. “All right,” and I offered up my hands as though expecting to be cuffed. “Do your worst.”

  We set up in the second-smallest conference room, since the main “experimental” one was still housing my gleaning, and nobody wanted to try to run two different spells at the same time, especially when one was still experimental. Like the movie said, “Don’t cross the streams.” Just because you don’t think anything bad will happen doesn’t mean nothing will.

  We shoved the table off to the side of the room, and I got to sit in the armchair, with Sharon sitting across from me, about a foot away. The rest of the crew hung back, lining the wall on the other side of the room: they weren’t needed, but nobody wanted to miss the show.

  Having a spell cast on you is an interesting experience. Despite the popular media-driven opinion of magic-users—thanks so much, J. K. Rowling—most of the time we don’t actually use formal spellwork; hell, most Talent didn’t use current knowingly, day-to-day. Maybe a flick of it to reheat coffee, or make the homeless person go to the other end of the subway car, or keep from getting wet if it rains and you don’t have an umbrella. Small things; mostly directed at inanimate objects, or other people—Nulls, who wouldn’t know magic if it hit them in the face.

  Having someone knowingly cast a spell on you, sitting there and letting it happen, was a lot like getting a shot. The technician might tell you it wouldn’t hurt, and you might know it wouldn’t hurt, but you braced yourself anyway.

  Sharon smiled at me, amused. “Relax, Bonnie.”

  “This is relaxed as you’re going to get from me. Do it already.”

  She nodded, and I could almost see her ground herself, slipping into fugue-state. Her face went still, almost slack, and her personality went Elsewhere, deep inside her core. Weird to watch…

  “As I ask, so must you answer, truth inherent, not subjective.”

  Wisps of current prickled on my skin, and I shivered.

  “Nice touch, that, the ‘not subjective’ part.”

  Her eyes opened, and she looked at me, personality back front and center. “Thanks.”

  “Of course, it’s bullshit, since all truth is subjective. It’s all your point of view. Like someone’s definition of sexy. I think you’re hot, Nifty doesn’t. Which one of us is wrong?”

  I said it so conversationally, so casually, I think it took everyone a minute to realize what I’d actually said, myself included.

  I’m not sure who blushed harder, Sharon or Nick. Nifty just laughed; he didn’t give a damn if Sharon knew what he thought of her, one way or the other. Neither did I, really, but I’d prefer to have made the comment under my own steam, not a spell.

  Now that I was aware of it, the current shimmered around me, like the haze you see over a campfire, only iridescent. It wrapped around my hands, and up to my chest and throat.

  I held my hands up, examining them. “Pretty. Can the rest of you see it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  Even Ian was shaking his head no, so it wasn’t a question of skill or power. The caster and the castee were the only ones who would be aware of it. “That intentional, to make it visible to the speaker, sort of full disclosure, or did you screw up?”

  “It was intentional,” Sharon said stiffly. I’d figured it would be; Sharon might have worked with lawyers, and held her cards close to her lovely chest, but when it came to current she was about as unsneaky as they came. If she was going to spellcast you, she’d let you know.

  “So. Test me. Or have we already established that it works?”

  “Can you tell a lie?” the boss asked.

  “I can lie like a professional when I need to,” I told Stosser. “Otherwise you’d have fired me already.” Oops.

  “Can you lie now, Bonnie?” Sharon asked, redirecting my attention to her. “We need to test if someone can shade the truth while the spell is on them.”

  “Oh, right.” I tried to think about something I could say that would be a half-truth. I blinked, and then blinked again, unable to come up with a single thing. All right, so I was a blunt, honest sort as a rule, but I had been telling Stosser the truth—I could lie, when needed.

  Only not now.

  All right, Sharon had wanted to test for half-truths and gray areas, too, right? How about something that wasn’t quite a lie?

  “I’ve never slept with anyone I didn’t know their name.”

  There was a snicker I barely heard. Damn it, I’d meant to say anyone that I didn’t love—which was a sort-of lie, because I’d never slept with anyone I didn’t like a great deal, but love…that was a little trickier to pin down. I wasn’t sure I’d ever actually been in love, honestly.

  “First name, or last?”

  I seized on Nifty’s question, meaning to have a little fun with him. “First, of course.”

  Except what I said was “First and last, of course.”

  “Damn it!” I put my face in my hands, willing myself not to say anything more. I had no problem with being honest, but even I had some things I had no desire to share—and the knowledge that the decision wasn’t mine anymore was making me feel distinctly uncomfortable.

  Nobody should have their volition taken from them, not even if they agreed to it beforehand. The right to not incriminate yourself, right? Even if you were not guilty.

  Sharon nodded at my outburst. “Not what you meant to say?”

  “No. Forget about it, get this thing off me. I don’t want to be your lab rat anymore.” Especially with recent events. I wasn’t even willing to think about what had happened between Venec and myself, not even inside my own head right now: if someone asked me the wrong question, unknowingly…

  Sharon hesitated, shooting a glance sideways at Stosser.

  “I mean it, Sharon. Break the spell or I’ll do it myself.” I didn’t know if I could, actually, but the panic I could feel start to bubble up inside wasn’t something I wanted to mess with. And if I, without any real things to hide, felt that way…what would an actual suspect feel like? If panic hit, and they tried to throw off the spell…

  Sharon needed to recalibrate this thing to be less obvious, and fast, before she tried it on anyone else. Otherwise she could get hurt.

  “Shar…”

  Stosser nodded, and Sharon released the strands of current, letting the spell disperse.

  The result was almost immediate, and my panic faded. I took a deep breath, calming my nerves and letting my core settle back into its usual cool coil. “Well. That was a truly delightful experience. We’ll have to do that again sometime rea
l soon.”

  Venec, damn him, laughed.

  eight

  Much to my surprise, what had felt like a half hour, max, in the hot seat had actually eaten away what was left of the afternoon. Stosser and Sharon’s debriefing—making me relive every detail, every feeling and frustration, so they could figure out how to modify the spell—took us into the evening. The late lunch kept me going, but when I staggered out to find the rest of the team hanging around like vultures, I demanded someone buy me dinner and a drink. Possibly lots of drinks.

  My coworkers, bless ’em, are usually up for a challenge like that. Sharon was understandably wiped out from controlling the spell and just wanted to go home, and Nifty claimed a previous engagement, but Pietr and Nick took on the obligation.

  Venec and Stosser were pointedly not invited. I don’t think they even noticed.

  After a brief but intense negotiation, we ended up in the bar around the corner from my apartment. The guys could stagger home on the subway: I wanted to be able to hop, skip, and stumble into my own lobby.

  “Bonita, chica, cómo está?”

  “Bien, gracias, Paula.”

  Paula, the weeknight bartender, spoke seven different languages, four of them fluently and three well enough to get her face slapped. I only spoke three with any comfort— English, Spanish, and German—but that was enough to play an interesting game of Russian roulette: each drink had to be ordered in a different language, and if I screwed it up, I had to buy her a drink, too. Things always got expensive late at night.

  “Hey, Paula,” Nick said, sliding onto a barstool, even as she was pulling a Stella for him, then sliding it onto the counter with a smooth motion. My drink changes with my moods and how crappy a day it’s been; Nick was born with Stella at the teat, and never looked back.

  “Labvakar, Paula. Bourbon, ldzu.”

  “Labs vakars, mans labs draugs.” Whatever language they were speaking, from the way Paula was careful with her pronunciation, I was betting it wasn’t one of her seven. Good for Pietr. Keep the barkeep on her toes.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re giving him.” I was tempted for a shot of tequila, but that was for really, really bad days. This was just bad and cranky. Bourbon would do for that.

  Paula leaned on the bar, her forearms threaded with lean muscle I could only dream of managing. “Uh-huh. You want to talk about it, or just sit and throw peanuts at each other?”

  Paula’s not Talent, but I don’t think there’s a professional bartender in town who doesn’t know about the Cosa. Fatae may not drink, but a lot of drunks see them. She knew who we were, and what we did for a living.

  “Peanuts,” Nick said.

  “Right you are.”

  Dermody’s was the kind of place you’d take a first date—and probably back again for the third date, if things went well. There were intimate tables with comfortable chairs, and a long granite bar with stools that encouraged long-term loitering, all under lighting that let you see your companion, but not so bright that it showed imperfections. Overall, the bar was comfortable without being cute, friendly but not loud, and you could strike up a conversation or sulk over your drink, and either choice got equal respect. And it was a five-minute walk from my apartment. If only it weren’t so damned expensive, I might live here.

  “So, do you think Sharon—”

  “Nuh-uh.” Pietr cut Nick off before I could. “No shop talk. It’s well after office hours even for the workaholic, and we are relaxing, not stressing.”

  “But…”

  “Do you want to turn into Sharon?” I asked.

  Pietr winced appreciatively. “Ouch. That was cold. Funny, but cold.”

  Nick took the top off his drink, wiping away the foam from his mouth. “You guys can really just turn it off? Just… end of day, not talking about it anymore, not thinking about it anymore?”

  “No.” I had to be honest—maybe some remnant of the spellwork? No, just my natural bluntness again. “No, I can’t just turn it off. But the first thing I learned, on our first case, was that there comes a time you have to just…let go. For a little while.”

  Our first case, when I’d almost fallen hard for a suspect. Will Arcazy, of the dark red hair and easy smile. He’d been a person of interest in the murders we were investigating, a couple killed over a real estate deal gone bad. Will had turned out to be…well, not guilty of murder, if not exactly innocent of responsibility, but the damage had been done. Once the case was over, he wanted nothing to do with me for the sin of having investigated him. I hadn’t loved him—but I had liked him a lot, and being given the cold shoulder had hurt.

  I’d been sitting in this bar, in fact, nursing that hurt, when Venec had found me, poured me into my apartment, and given me a piece of good advice. “This is a tough job. You’re going to be asked to pick up a lot. Carry it on your skin, not your spine.”

  I didn’t share that with the guys, though, just repeated my own advice. “Let it go. At least until tomorrow morning. It will wait.”

  “Right.” Nick didn’t sound too certain, and I didn’t have anything to add, so we sat there, drinking our drinks, in quiet reflection for a while. Paula refilled the peanut dish, and set us up with a pitcher of water and three tumblers. I guess she knew a long drinking night when she saw one coming in.

  “So,” Nick said finally, proving my suspicion that he was purely incapable of going ten minutes without talking. “When’re you going to throw another party?”

  “When my neighbors forgive me for the last one, probably.” It hadn’t been particularly loud, or run all that late, but someone on the floor below had taken offense and left a nasty note on my door. I guess it was all adding up. “Anyway, isn’t it time someone else hosted a party, for once?”

  “Pietr won’t let us near his place because it’s too nice, Sharon lives too far away—” Translocation when drunk was usually a really bad idea, and the subway ride home from Brooklyn where Sharon lived was a pain in the ass after midnight “—and you can barely turn around in my apartment.”

  Nobody volunteered Nifty’s place; we’d all been there. Once.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll host—if you let me dye your hair.”

  “What?” His hands went, protectively, to the brown mop on his head.

  “Seriously. I’ll even let you choose the color.” I figured we could talk him out of anything seriously objectionable. Unlike Pietr, Nick’s taste was…dubious.

  “Dye my hair?” He was still stuck on that thought.

  “Why not? Chicks dig it.”

  “They do?” He looked to Pietr, who spread his hands in a “why you asking me?” expression, then to Paula, who had been listening with a third of an ear. She winked, but left what that wink meant open to interpretation.

  “A guy who dyes his hair?” I nodded seriously. “Open to new things, experiences…maybe wild things…” I waggled my eyebrows like a cartoon lech.

  “All right. Deal.” We shook on it, Pietr and Paula our witnesses.

  A few more drinks and a plate of chicken nachos, and the guys started acting like guys, rating the other women in the bar. Normally I’d join in—give the female point of view, maybe undercut a few sexist observations with the cold claws of feminism—but I wasn’t in the mood tonight.

  Drunk and annoyed, the things I’d been trying not to think about came out.

  “Why do guys do that? Use violence, I mean?”

  Nick stopped, mid-rating of a redhead with too much shelf showing. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about the case.”

  “We’re not. This isn’t about the case. It’s just…wondering.”

  Pietr didn’t seem surprised. “If it weren’t for the case, you wouldn’t be asking. But I get where you’re coming from, I think,” he said, putting his drink on the bar with a definite clink. “It’s not about sex, those guys. It’s about power. Control.”

  “Yeah. I know. And I even understand the whole S&M thing, kind of. I mean, the role-playing aspects
of it, the pain-for-pleasure stuff, it’s not my game but I know enough people who play it. That’s different. It’s mutual, agreed upon…it’s play. But how does forcing someone to have sex give you power…my brain just doesn’t go there. Is it because I’m female?”

  “No.” Pietr was definite on that. “It’s because you’re gentle.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure I understood that, or that I bought it, entirely, but when nothing makes sense anyway…

  “I mean, not gentle like soft, gentle like considerate,” he tried to clarify. “You like people. You want to help them, make things better. And what those guys did, or tried to do…that kind of mentality, the personality that can do that, it’s not just about forcing women, or even forcing sex. It’s about making someone do something they don’t want to do. It’s about seeing them as tools, or pets, not people.” He frowned, picked up his drink again, and then frowned down into it, too.

  “So what is it? A need for power? Anger?” I knew hatred—I hated the man who had killed my father, even now, years later—but the kind of anger that made you hurt someone…maybe Pietr was right; I’d never thought of myself as particularly gentle, but that kind of anger just wasn’t in me. Maybe that was why I couldn’t understand what I’d gleaned from the scene.

  “I think that they’re bullies, mostly. The studies I’ve read say the weak are the ones who need violence to get off, not the strong ones.”

  Okay. That, I understood. It was as good a theory as any, anyway. And it was interesting, that Pietr had read up on that. I raised my glass in toast. “To taking down the bullies.”

  “To taking down the bullies,” Pietr echoed, and Nick raised his glass in silent agreement, tipping the rims gently—or as gently as we could, after half a dozen drinks.

  “Hey, Bonnie, you were working the main scene—did you get to see the ki-rin, up close?” Nick asked me, obviously wanting to change the subject.

  “Not up close, no. I didn’t want to, honestly. It scared me a little.”

  “What, because you’re not lily-pure virginal?” From someone else that would’ve been insulting. From Nick, it was an invitation to whap him upside the head. So I did.