Current was a science. Hard magic. You knew what you got when you did A versus what you got from B. In theory, anyway.
Old magic, the wild power, the stuff the fatae lived on… It was messy and inconsistent and couldn’t ever be trusted. But it was part of us, too. Passion. Art. Hate. Need. It was the power base of current, the spirit of the law, and would not be denied. I’d forgotten that, for a little while.
I wouldn’t ever forget it again.
On the third morning, there was a knock on my door. I seriously considered ignoring it, but it was morning, and I did still have a job—hopefully—and eventually I was going to have to rejoin the rest of the human race.
Besides, my scalp was starting to itch, and I was tired of leftover curry.
I climbed down from my loft, and went to open the door.
“I brought coffee.”
Venec. Of course. I took the thermos from him, and stepped back to let him come inside. If I’d been aware of my unwashed hair and curry-scented skin before, I was three times as aware of it now, plus the fact that I’d answered the door in a pair of shorts that shouldn’t be worn outside, and a tank top with rude anime on it, neither of which did much to actually cover my body.
“Drink the coffee. Go shower. We have a nine o’clock appointment.”
“With who?” Clients met with Ian, not us. So what…
“Council.”
Right. Shit. I gulped the coffee, already heading for the bathroom.
I wondered, as the hot water was returning me to a people-appropriate stage, why Venec had come to get me personally. It would have been easier to send a ping. Had he knocked up the others, too? Was Ian collecting them?
The answer came easily, the moment I wondered. He was worried about me. My mood had been reaching him, and he wanted to make sure I was okay, before I had to go face everyone else.
It was sweet, that concern. Kind of annoying, too—both the worry and the fact that I’d been leaking, despite my walls—but it was sweet.
Benjamin Venec was not a man who did sweet easily. Or well, for that matter. I was proud of myself for being mature enough both to recognize that, and to prize it.
By the time I got out of the shower, he was gone. The thermos, and a note scrawled and left on my table were all that reassured me I hadn’t hallucinated the entire thing.
177 Union Street, 13th flr
I couldn’t remember ever seeing Ben’s handwriting before. It was thick and slanted, and I’m sure a specialist could find all sorts of fascinating nibblets about him by studying it. I left the paper on the table and went off to get dressed. No funk this time: Council meant Council clothing. A knee-length navy blue pencil skirt and a cream V-neck sweater that showed just a ladylike hint of cleavage, a gold chain at the collarbone and subtle diamond studs in my ears, one to a lobe, and navy blue shoes with a demure two-inch heel, stockings, and I was ready to go.
The morning sunshine was a little shocking, and the world seemed to have taken a giant leap toward actual spring while I was hibernating. The trees were budding madly, and my eyes started to itch. The pollen count must be skyrocketing. Even so, and even knowing where I was going, and why, it was difficult to keep my mood low. Spring in New York City could be dreary…or magnificent. It was giving us magnificence today.
177 Union Street was a tall stone building, built at the turn of the last century. Ben hadn’t needed to leave the address: I knew the building.
The home of the Eastern Council, New York City.
As usual, the Council was insisting on putting their thumbprint on things—once all the work was done. No, be fair, Bonnie: some of the players had been theirs, they had the right.
There was no receptionist in the front lobby, just a large marble desk with an old-fashioned register. I signed in, and noted that the Big Dogs were already there, and Sharon, but not the others. There was a steam-powered elevator that took a lifetime to reach the 13th floor, and it was with considerable relief that I got out intact. I might not be entirely comfortable with elevators, even now, but hydro-electronics just gave me serious heebie-jeebies. I don’t care how many decades it had been running without incident in a building filled with Talent, it still wasn’t my idea of safe.
“Hi.” Like me, Sharon was dressed in subdued colors and classic style—the difference was, that was normal for her. Her blond hair was back in a chignon, and she’d dragged a two-strand pearl set out from somewhere. She so totally channeled the 1940s cool screen-goddess look, I’d be envious if I didn’t know it would be a total flop on me.
“The Guys already in?”
“Yes. They said to wait until we were called.”
Her hands were laced together, as though to keep them from twitching, and I reached out, on impulse, and covered them with my own. Her skin was cold, too cold for just the air conditioning.
“Hey. It’s okay.” I left my hands there, trying to give her back some warmth, not even thinking that she might take it the wrong way. She didn’t.
“I’ve never appeared before the Council before,” she admitted. “What are we supposed to do, or say?”
I’d forgotten, again, that Ian and I were the only Council-raised members of the pack.
“It’s the sentencing phase,” I told her, tugging her hands so that she’d follow me over to the row of seats against the wall, and made her sit down next to me, letting go of her hands only because mine were starting to pick up her chill. “We present the evidence against the accused, and the Council members determine punishment.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Not me, no. My mentor sat on the Council for a while, and used to consult for them, after. I’ve heard stories.”
Before she could ask about those stories—thankfully, because I didn’t think they’d calm her nerves much—Ben appeared at the doorway. He didn’t bother to look around for us, just pointed a finger, and then crooked it to indicate we both should come with him.
“Once more, dear friends…”
Sharon almost giggled, then she caught herself, and we marched into the Council chamber with suitably solemn and professional expressions.
What I hadn’t told Sharon was that we shouldn’t have been there. Council didn’t hear testimony from peons, and we were assuredly peons. Ian should have been handling this. So why had they called on us?
I didn’t bother to ask: we’d find out soon enough.
Despite lonejack assumptions, the Seated Council isn’t a formal body. At any given time there are about twenty members, and only half of them are considered active, although everyone tends to stick their thumb in the pie. When we walked in, the long board table had fourteen people seated behind it, so they had called out a considerable number for this. I tried not to let my uncertainty reach Sharon; the last thing she needed to know was that the Council was on high alert.
The Big Dogs knew, though. Venec’s suit should have been my warning sign: he was a good dresser—and occasionally a hot one, as his club gear had shown—but today’s outfit would have done a senior VP investment banker proud, with just the right hang to announce that it was bespoke, and just enough style to show he was alert and comfortable with himself. Stosser was…Stosser. His suit was a traditional navy that could have come from the same store as Sharon’s gray pinstripe, this year’s fashion with a timeless dress boot underneath that he’d probably owned since he was my age, and had resoled every few years. And topping it all off, he had slicked back his long red hair into a ponytail, and tied it with a matching navy cord. I wondered, for the first time, how many times his family had gotten on his case to cut it short, and blend in.
Like Ian Stosser was ever going to blend.
“And who are these children?” the woman in the middle asked. Sharon got her chin up at that, but I bit back a grin. Luce Jackson could call just about anyone in the city a child. J had once hazarded a guess that she was at least 93, and maybe older. Still sharper than the proverbial tack, the terror of her entire family, an
d the iron hand behind half a dozen liberal charities up and down the eastern seaboard.
“Madame, may I present Sharon Mendelssohn, one of our top field operatives, and Bonita Torres, who is our finest lab technician.”
Technically speaking, we didn’t have a lab, much less technicians, but I merely stepped forward and presented myself with a formal head-and-shoulder bob. Sharon did the same, about half a second behind me.
“And you have brought them here to testify?”
“If the Council wishes confirmation of details, they are the ones best to answer,” Ian said, smooth as cream.
“All right. Let them be seated until called.”
Our relief was probably visible as we retreated to the cushioned chairs along the back wall of this room, as several of the Council members chuckled softly. But it was a sympathetic sound, not a harsh one, so my anxiety level went down a bit, and I could practically feel Sharon unclenching her jaw and loosening her shoulders.
“The Council is here this morning to consider the instance of an attack against a sovereign fatae, the Honorable Si-Ja and his companion, the Talent Mercy Trin, and the resulting death of the Talent Roger Mack and injury given to the Talent Aren Geb. All parties have stated their rendition of the events, and there is a clear conflict between all versions. We have therefore requested that the situation be investigated, to determine where the truth lays. Ian Stosser has already presented to us their findings, with a rather…complicated explanation of the events.”
Just the people named. Not the man who had started all this: he was not their concern, he was not Council. But word was out: his community would pass judgment. It wasn’t our job. Our job was to find the truth. No matter what it took. The sour feeling in my stomach? That was just part of the job.
The members started arguing with each other over interpreting the testimony that Ian and Ben had already given, and I listened with one ear in case we were called on, and let the rest of my attention rest on the Big Dogs. Stosser was restless, tapping his finger against the knee that was crossed over his other leg, staring fixedly at something. Ben, on the other hand, looked like he had all the time in the world, and nowhere he’d rather be than sitting right there. I let down my wall just a bit, and was splashed with a wave of tension, agitation, annoyance, and, deep into the core of all that, a sense of anger that the Council had to even discuss the matter.
Poor Venec. He really was such a lonejack.
Thinking of that made me think of the men who had attacked Mercy, trying to scare her into silence. Lonejacks, probably. Fatae-haters. There was no justice there, except the beat-down we had given them: but they were still out there. Lurking. Building hatred, and there was nothing we could do to stop them. Not until, unless, someone hired us…and then it would be too late.
“Ms. Torres.”
I almost jumped when they called my name, only that part of my attention I’d given over to the Council murmur keeping me from being totally startled. I swallowed, stood up, and walked slowly forward. Better me than Sharon, was all I could think; she had audibly yelped when they called my name, what would she have done if they’d called her?
“Ms. Torres. You were the investigator on the scene, who collected the primary evidence, is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And as part of that evidence, you, ah…gleaned the emotions from the scene of the attack?”
I hesitated, not sure how to proceed. Was this a trick question?
Into my hesitation came a gentle wave of reassurance. *answer the question* Ben told me.
Right then. I took a deep breath, and pushed my shoulders into a comfortable “at attention” posture. “Ma’am, no. I did not garner emotions from the scene because there were no strong emotions attached to the signatures we were collecting.”
“Are you sure that you simply were not able to sense those emotions? Empathy is a very rare skill, and you were no doubt overwhelmed by the scene itself.”
That came from another member, a—comparatively—younger male. He was trying not to be patronizing, but I still wanted to bare my teeth and snap at him. I resisted the urge.
“No, sir. We are not reading emotions themselves.” And anyway, J was of the opinion that most so-called empaths were frauds. “We collect signature, and often if the caster was strongly…motivated, we will find that within the signature itself, like…like an inclusion in a diamond. There were no such inclusions at the time.” And because I couldn’t let the implied slap go by, I added, “We are trained professionals, sir. The scene is processed carefully, and our own feelings do not enter into our notes or our evaluations.”
“But you were disturbed by the scene?” he insisted.
“Sir. A woman had been assaulted, a man was dead. Another man was injured and a ki-rin had been distressed. It was our duty to determine the cause. Any personal feelings were secondary and not to be allowed to intervene.” Oh, god, I could have been one of J’s hoitier toitier Council contacts, with that response. It did the job, though.
They let me sit down, and started arguing together. I settled in for a long haul, but it took them about ten minutes to come to some consensus.
“We have heard the arguments. We have heard the evidence. We are in agreement.”
My breath caught, and I swallowed hard. Mercy…what price would they impose on Mercy for her foolish greed?
“For the attack on the ki-rin’s companion, no matter the reason, Aren Geb shall pay to the ki-rin a blood-price of one gold coin.”
That was the price they placed on Mercy’s… I bit down my anger. Mercy had been a participant, however traumatized. A single gold coin was a traditional sum, and nothing more than saving face with the fatae, so that none could say the Council did not address the damage done.
“For the use of the solemn bond between ki-rin and companion for foul purpose, and for arranging the death of Roger Mack for another’s gain, we charge Aren Geb with murder.”
There was a release of air in the room, as though a dozen invisible people had let out a sigh, all at once. It creeped me out; bad enough that Pietr could disappear—there was an entire room of them? But nobody else seemed to notice.
“For the betrayal of the solemn bond between ki-rin and companion, the girl Mercy Trin has already been punished more than any might mete out. For her part in arranging the death of Roger Mack for another’s gain, we change her with murder.”
Sharon sighed, and even Ian looked saddened, although his expression never changed. Stupid, foolish, greedy girl. The Council decrees were not law, as such, but they had the force of tradition behind them, and even lonejacks and Gypsies followed a murder conviction. By the end of the week every Talent in the country would know what they had done.
The punishment was shunning. Not to speak, not to touch, not to acknowledge in any way that the shunned was Talent. They were no longer a part of the Cosa Nostradamus.
Mercy…as damaged as she already was by this, by what she had done…
Hopefully Mash would still take care of her, despite the shunning. Alone, she wouldn’t last a year, not in that state.
I didn’t give a damn about Aren Geb.
“And what of the ki-rin?”
Ben. Standing up straight and angry in his expensive suit, his voice calm, but his gaze met each of the Council members in turn, and I was insanely proud of him, an emotion that surprised me.
“What of the ki-rin’s involvement, Council members?”
Luce stood, matching him gaze for gaze. Her face seemed even more seamed and wrinkled than it had when I arrived, but her back was straight and her voice didn’t waver or crack.
“The ki-rin is out of our concern.” The words were soft, but firm. Ben waited, then bowed his head to the truth of that, and stood down.
And then it was over, and we were leaving the Council chambers, solemn and silent. Stosser waved us on, stopping to talk to someone who had not been in the chamber.
Nobody said anything until we
were in the elevator, and the doors slid shut in front of us, the sound of water rushing behind us.
“The ki-rin was just as guilty as the others,” Sharon said, stabbing at the control panel as though it were a Council member.
“I know.” Venec, standing next to me, sounded really, really tired. I didn’t dare look at him, afraid it would be too much and I’d crack.
“The fatae won’t punish it though, will they?” Sharon went on, as the elevator slid down thirteen floors. “They’ll call it a human affair, and brush it under the rug, because the ki-rin is too precious, too rare to be involved with anything so base as murder for hire. Because it had to be the human’s fault, not their precious ki-rin.”
I wanted to say something to counter her bitterness, but there was nothing to say. She was right.
“There are rules, Sharon,” Venec said, and his sorrow and anger rasped against me like a physical thing. He repeated more softly, as though to himself, about something entirely different, “There are rules. The fatae are not ours to discipline.”
Without looking down I couldn’t say whose hand found the other, his or mine, but the touch of skin to skin, brushing fingertips, calmed us both, not erasing the anger, but making it a smoother, quieter thing.
By the time we got back to the office, Ian having joined us en route, that calm was shattered.
The rest of the pack was gathered in the main room, but the coffee carafe was full, the newspapers untouched, and Pietr was a blurry outline of gray misery. Even Nick looked like someone had poured a bucket of soggy onto him.
“What happened?” Ian asked, even as Ben gave a quick once-around the room, looking for clues, anything that was out of place or threatening.
“The ki-rin.” Pietr answered for all of them. “Bonnie, Danny called this morning, looking for you. He thought we’d want to know. The ki-rin…”
Pack of Lies psi-2 Page 30