Burning Bridges

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “That would have been rude. I figured I’d give you a chance to explain, first. Then, if you balked, that would be next.”

  Of course. Not that he would have expected anything else, from her.

  “I love you, Zhenchenka, but there are some things you’re not going to be privy to.” Not until he’d had a chance to talk to his doctor, first, at the very least. But Jesus, he wasn’t ready to deal with this.

  “Fine.” Said in that tone of voice, it was completely and emphatically not fine. “I can understand that. I can respect that. We had the whole ‘keeping important things secret’ fight already, not going to rehash that, so anything you’d keep from me would be minor and totally unimportant and not caused or relating to anything I might have done, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Pee much blood, lately?”

  “Don’t do this, Wren. Not right now.”

  “When, then? Because you keep telling me it’s nothing, and it’s not nothing. Not if you’ve got the doctor running tests you’re not telling me about.”

  Wren could hear her voice getting thin with anger, and hated herself for it. She had sworn, all the way over here, that she wouldn’t do this. That she would respect his decision to keep this away from her, that she wouldn’t assume the worst, that she would give him room and time to come clean of his own accord.

  The damned horse had her on edge; that was all. It affected everyone that way—that was why she’d decided to hide it here, where its effect on the general public would be limited. She had reason to know that these storage rooms could be remarkably well insulated, magically. What went into them, stayed in them. And she could warn Sergei…

  Well. That had been the theory, anyway.

  “So tell me. How much damage have I been doing to you? And how much of it can’t they fix?”

  He looked as bad as she felt. How much of that was normal travel-crap, and how much of it was stuff that had been going on, stuff she had been too immersed in her own trauma, her own selfishness, to notice? His chest was rising and falling faster than normal, but his breathing sounded shallow. She tried to focus in on it, using current like a stethoscope, an MRI, to look under the skin, past the flesh and blood, down into the internal organs that took the brunt of every single shot of current he had ever taken, every time she had ever grounded in him, or dragged him into a case, put him in the line of fire.

  “Wren, it’s okay.” He was trying for Reasonable Adult, but it came out all wrong. “There’s been some impact, yes. But it’s under control. We already discussed this. I’m an adult. I can deal with this.”

  “No, you’re not. Adult, that is. You’re a hormonal idiot in an adult’s body.” She could feel her hands clenching into fists, and forced them, slowly, to unclench. What she wanted to do was hug him, snuggle into his embrace and let him tell her she was the best at what she did, how impressed he was that she’d managed to finally close the one case even he had given up on, and pretend the rest of this wasn’t happening. But she couldn’t give him that out; couldn’t pretend she wasn’t angry, wasn’t hurt, wasn’t scared out of her mind.

  He didn’t seem to understand, didn’t seem to care what she was doing to him. Didn’t seem to care that if they weren’t careful—if she wasn’t careful, she could lose him.

  Yes, she had abandonment issues, a little. Her dad was a one-night stand, her mentor had walked out when he started to wiz—Sergei, of all people, should understand that she had issues. He was the one who made her take the psych courses, in college.

  No more Sergei. Yawning black pit under her feet, when she tried to think about that. So she didn’t think about it. Better to be angry. Angry at the assholes who thought that killing was the way to deal with anything that was different, and scary. Angry at the idiots who saw threats under every rock and behind every street lamp. And angry at her clueless, oblivious, stubborn partner, who couldn’t understand that losing him, that being the thing that killed him, might kill her, too.

  Angry that the bansidhe might have appeared to warn her of exactly that happening.

  “Jesus, Wren. You were the one who told me that you could control your current. And I’m telling you that I can control my…kink. So what’s the problem?”

  “Because I don’t believe either one of us.”

  There was a long heavy silence, standing like a third person between them, then Sergei picked up the carry-on bag he had dropped when he came in, and shook his head. “Then that’s your problem, isn’t it? I suggest you deal with it.”

  And then he walked out.

  fourteen

  It was snowing. Again. At this point, it wasn’t novel, it wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t keeping anyone safe at all, it wasn’t anything but a damned annoyance, and Wren was heartily sick and tired of winter and cold and the bleak barren nothingness of the city.

  On the way home from the gallery, she stopped at a specialty food market to pick up precooked ribs and a bottle of diet Sprite, plus a box of hot cocoa. Her hand hesitated over the box of Double Stuf Oreo cookies, and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, but she decided that that would be pushing the stereotype a bit too far. This wasn’t a breakup; she wasn’t going to dive headfirst into breakup foods.

  She had to believe that. Had to. Nothing else was acceptable; therefore nothing else was going to happen.

  That is not logic as we mortals know it.

  Neezer’s voice, faint and almost forgotten. Her mentor had been a damned good role model for facing up to the facts of the situation: when he screwed up, he dealt with it, by himself and on his own, the way a lonejack should. You didn’t drag anyone else into your own mess, and they returned the favor. A lonejack was strong. A lonejack took care of herself.

  And a lonejack took care of her family. She had gotten her mother out of the line of fire. P.B. was in it, thick as she was, but it was his mess, too. Sergei…

  Sergei is an adult, and tougher than you are by a magnitude. Her own voice this time, with maybe a touch of her mother in the tone. You insulted him, by telling him otherwise. Just because he puts out this urbane man-about-town thing, don’t ever forget he’s got as much macho in him as the next guy.

  “Oh, shut up. He doesn’t understand.” Yes, he’d seen firsthand what current could do to someone, both physically and mentally. But Wren lived it, every minute of every day. She had seen her mentor go insane, watched as people were burned alive from inside by overrush, had shared the thoughts of mages fighting against madness to get out one more rational thought before sinking back into the morass. Any of it could happen to her, at any point. And none of that scared her as much as the thought that she might be damaging her partner. That she, herself, might be bad for him. Dangerous to him.

  He didn’t know how often she grounded in him, without asking. Without thinking. It wasn’t just the sex; it was the pattern of their partnership. She needed, he gave. The fact that he got off on what she gave made it all right, to him. It wasn’t all right. It was worse.

  She stopped in front of her apartment building, and looked up. Her apartment was dark. Bonnie’s apartment was dark. She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to be alone.

  She didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  Unbidden, a memory rose from deep inside, from a place she never went, wasn’t even sure actually existed. The recent sense of another presence within her, heavy and solid and secure: like bedrock, only warm, living.

  Without conscious thought, Wren turned away from her apartment and started walking, following that memory, the sense of completeness, of never-ending support and stability at once familiar and totally alien.

  The snow stopped falling at some point during her walk, and she looked around, blinking, to discover that she had covered a quarter of the City without noticing it. Admittedly, Manhattan itself was only about thirteen miles long and two miles wide, but it was still impressive, even discounting the weather.

  She was downtown, all the way downtown, near the financial district. It was c
losed up tight for the evening: storefronts shuttered and lights dimmed. But the whitewashed brick building in front of her had one small light in the window in the basement, and it was there that she found herself heading.

  The sidewalk-level door was battered—and unlocked. She pushed through, and went down a narrow staircase. It was grim, but clean, which was better than expected. The door at the bottom of the stairs was open, as though she had been expected. She didn’t even think to be alarmed by that—alarm had no place here.

  The main room was small, but cozy; a comfortable-looking love seat covered in some nubby, velvet-looking blue fabric, and a low table that looked old enough to either be junk or a valuable antique. The walls were painted a warm deep rose color that should have been fussy but instead came across as being intrinsically masculine, complementing the assortment of black-and-white and sepia-toned photographs placed on shelves, among a scattering of books and knickknacks.

  It had the flavor, she decided, of royalty in exile. Poor but dignified.

  The white noise she’d been vaguely aware of in the background stopped, and only then did she recognize it for the sound of running water. A door across the room opened, and P.B. walked out, briskly rubbing a towel over his furry back.

  “Was wondering when you’d show up.”

  Wren had always thought “jaw-dropping surprise” was a silly phrase, until she felt her own jaw do it. “How…okay, I’m confused now.”

  The demon grinned, and for the first time in years the sight of his gleaming white teeth under black gums left her uneasy rather than reassured.

  “Relax, Valere. For such a hotshot Talent, you really don’t know anything, do you?”

  Apparently not.

  An hour later, Wren was still confused. But now it was from too much information, not too little.

  “So.” They were seated on the love seat, Wren with her legs curled up under her, a mug of strong, black coffee in her hands and a plate of thin and disgustingly, sweetly addictive waffle-cookies on the table in front of her. “I grounded in you, when I was fighting the thing in the Parchment, and that created a bond between us, which I used—subconsciously—to find you tonight. That about sum it up?”

  The demon nodded his head. “Simplistic, but yeah. Grounding in anyone creates a bond, Valere. You did know that, yes?”

  “No, actually.” It seemed like there was a lot she didn’t know. A lot Neezer hadn’t known. Had Ayexi, Neezer’s mentor, known? Or was this yet another example of the drawbacks of the mentorship system, where one slip in one generation meant information was lost to an entire line?

  “So Sergei and me…” Oh God. The thought chilled her deeper than the weather could reach.

  P.B. shook his head. “No. Trust me, Valere. You two…that’s electricity, not just current.”

  She took a sip of her coffee, waiting for it to warm her insides. “How do I know? I grounded, and he…” She stopped, unable to actually share that bit with the demon.

  “He…?” When she showed no sign of continuing, he went on. “I’ve been around a long time, Valere. I’ve known a lot of humans. He loves you. You love him. Everything else…it comes from that, not the other way around. It’s not even close to being current-made.” The demon sounded certain of that, at least. Wren wasn’t so sure.

  “Anyway,” he said, not quite changing the subject, “you think it’s easy to ground in another human, especially a Null, the way you say you’ve done?”

  “No. Neezer always said it couldn’t be done, not successfully. But…”

  “But you did it. More than once. Let that be your guide. He let you in, all the way in, and gave back. Anything he gets from you…fair trade, no?”

  Back to the crux of the matter. “Not if it’s hurting him.”

  And with that, the floodgates opened, and all her fears, her terrors, poured out. Poured, hell. She babbled. Wren suspected it wasn’t making any sense, but P.B. sat there, listening intently, occasionally nodding his head or rubbing the side of his muzzle in thought, and that was more reassuring than any well-meant sympathy.

  Finally, the words slowed, and she leaned back, drained. “Even if I can get him to…not do it, not let me use him like that when it’s not an emergency…if he really does love me, the way you say—he says he does, then he won’t stop. Not if the alternative is me being distracted or overloaded when it could be dangerous. Not even if he’s risking himself, because he’ll say that’s a risk that he’s willing to take.”

  P.B. had no answer for that.

  She snuggled back into the sofa, which was as warm and comfortable as it looked, and let the demon refill her coffee mug. The window, at ground level, had snow shoved up against it, and the lights were dimmed, giving the entire room the feeling of a hobbit-hole.

  The cookies were gone, although she didn’t remember eating any. Her stomach didn’t feel overloaded, so maybe P.B. had eaten his share.

  “Too many decisions, P.B. Too many…too many things depending on me. How the hell did I get in so deep? I swear, I just didn’t say no once, and…

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, finally. “This…Quad-advising-leadership thing. I’m not a damned hero. I’m not a leader. I’m a damned lonejack thief who is in way over her head.”

  “We all are,” P.B. said, and whatever pity had been in his voice before was gone now. “Over our heads, anyway. You think anyone knows what’s going on? You think anyone’s got a clue?”

  She sighed, having wanted—but not expected—him to say something soothing and comforting again. “More benefit of your years of experience?”

  “Decades, Valere. Decades and decades. And every one of them I see the same thing. People getting thrown into the deep end of the pool and learning how to swim. Or they drown. You have no idea how to drown, so you’re gonna swim.”

  She almost cracked a smile at that. “How old are you, P.B.?”

  For a moment, she didn’t think that he was going to answer. “Old. Older than I want to be.”

  That opened up a whole bunch of questions, all shoving for space, but one of them was more important than the others. One she should have asked months ago, but had never found the right time or place.

  “So how come I can ground so easily in you?” P.B. stared into his own mug, the low light making his white fur appear tinged with blue, and his dark red eyes almost black.

  “Because it’s what I was created for,” he said, finally. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it. Just…accept the fact that you can ground in me, without injuring me, if you need to.”

  Something, less in the words he said than how he said them, set Wren’s nerves on edge all over again.

  “Never without asking,” she said. “Asking, and your permission.”

  She wasn’t sure, in the bad lighting, but she thought his shoulder relaxed a little, as though he had been braced against the wind, and come into shelter unexpectedly.

  Someone hurt him. Someone used him. Oh, P.B…. But she knew any expression of sympathy would shut down the moment, so they sat and drank their coffee, each sunk in their own thoughts and wrapped in the comfort of the room, until a screech cut through the night.

  She was on her feet before he was, but P.B. pinpointed the source first. “Outside.”

  He made as though to go outside, but she grabbed at him, her fingers digging into his fur, into the muscle beneath. “Look before you leap.”

  “Right. Caution. I used to know that.” Instead of the door, P.B. shoved open the window and, disregarding the snow that came in and dusted the floor, stuck his head out to see what was going on. The window was large enough for Wren to get in beside him, pressed up hard against his body. The demon’s fur had a surprisingly spicy smell she had noted before, but for the first time she wondered if it was natural, or some sort of cologne.

  Then what was happening on the street drove all other thoughts out of her head. Two humans, and a snarling dog on a heavy chain, had cornered a little girl dressed in a wh
ite coat and cap against the wall of the building across the street. The streetlamp overhead cast everything into bare relief against the snow, black-and-white and painfully sharp to Wren’s eyes.

  Her first thought was horror—someone was attacking a child!—and then she realized that no child of that age would be out wandering at night in a snowstorm, and second, no child of any age would be likely to make that kind of sharp, keening noise which was definitely coming from the creature in white.

  She didn’t know every fatae breed in the city, although her knowledge was expanding daily, but she knew one when she heard it.

  The dog lunged, and was pulled back by the human holding the chain; not to keep it from attacking, but to prolong the fatae’s terror. Wren felt her muscles tensing, readying to go to the child’s—the fatae’s—aid. Next to her, P.B. was doing the same. But they stayed put, watching it play out in front of them.

  Almost without realizing it, Wren brought a coil of current up, a slender copper-red thread.

  I have a claim in the Truce

  I call on that claim

  I place—

  “Damn it!” P.B.’s voice shook her out of her cantrip, the first time that had happened since she was sixteen. She tried to grab at the current, and it turned on her, sizzling viciously enough to make her entire core shudder in response, like a hundred geese walking over her grave.

  “You’re in the wrong part of town, Thingy,” one of the attackers said, his voice clearly audible in the night air between them, distracting her from the current-burn. “Only humans allowed here.”

  “You think so, do you?” P.B. growled in response, a low, menacing noise like a freight train. Wren’s hand on his arm tightened, as much to keep herself upright as him from getting involved. The white-coated fatae—no, not a coat, she suddenly realized, but down sheltering the body—shuddered and tensed, as though about to make a break for it.

  “Go on, run,” one of the humans taunted the fatae. “Run. Ripper here needs the exercise.”