Hard Magic

by Laura Anne Gilman

  She walked out past Nifty, who held the door wide-open for her. We could hear the soft sound of her feet on the stairs, and the shouting of the paramedics and firefighters rising from the lobby.

  And then there was silence, and the endless stink of burned-out wiring, and the bitter singe of blood.

  twenty-two

  Nobody went home that night, despite the advice of the firefighters who came through to check the damages. The smell was nasty, but after a while I didn’t even notice it through the bitterness in my mouth, and the comfort of the others was…comforting.

  I slept a little, and I know Nick did, too, because I woke up with him sacked out against my shoulder, a now-melted cold pack pressed against his face. There was fresh coffee in the pot, and a sack of egg-and-bacon sandwiches on the counter that smelled disgusting and irresistible all at once.

  I got up carefully, but Nick, other than a midsnore snort, didn’t react. My stomach warned me that coffee might be a bad idea, but food was probably necessary. I pulled a sandwich out of the sack, wrapped it in a napkin, and went in search of a phone that might still work. My first call didn’t go so well, and my hand trembled as I dialed the second. I could have just pinged J and let him know that I was okay, but I…

  I wanted to hear his voice.

  “Bonnie?”

  “Hi.”

  There was a long silence, then a heavy sigh. “You’re all right.”

  I started to reassure him, then stopped. “I’m okay. I’m not sure ‘all right’ is all that, though. And no, I’m not going—” I almost said home, and switched midway “—back to Boston. Not yet, anyway.”

  “I understand.” He didn’t. But he was trying. “You will come and visit the old man? Soon?”

  I tucked the phone between ear and shoulder, and unwrapped the sandwich. My mouth watered. “The old man can come down and see me this weekend.”

  He chuckled, a warm and comforting sound. “He could. He could even bring a bottle of wine.”

  “That would be nice.”

  A chime sounded, deep in the office.

  “J, I gotta go.”

  “All right. Bonita…”

  My eyes watered. “I love you, too.”

  Hanging up the phone, I crammed the greasy biscuit into my mouth, and went in search of the meeting.

  Almost instinctively, I went to the lounge, meeting Nifty in the hallway as he came out of the bathroom, his hands still wet and his shirt untucked, but the worst of that look faded from his eyes. Nick was now awake and pouring out coffee. Everyone scrunched together, Nick, Pietr and I on the sofa, Nifty on the loveseat, Sharon perched on the arm. Venec pulled a chair in from somewhere and turned it backward, sitting with his arms crossed over the frame. Ian, wearing a pinstripe go-to-Council suit, with his hair slicked and neatly queued, paced while he talked.

  “Kate Walker, Arcazy’s silent partner, is dead.” He let that float a moment, then went on. “It looks like suicide. Again.”

  “Our killer?” Nick’s voice was bleak, and my hand found his, squeezing once.

  “Probably no way to know. Phone records show that a call came in to her from Arcazy’s office just before time of death, a little while after Bonnie and Sharon visited him. Either he let her know we were onto her, and she killed herself rather than be found out, or…”

  “Or her hired killer killed her, to clean up the scene.”

  “It’s a theory.”

  It was a good theory. If Will had been telling us the truth about not being involved, he had nothing to fear. If he did know…then the killer might be after him next. I hoped he had been truthful.

  “Other than that,” Ian said, “we had it nailed, more or less. Despite the situation with the silent partner, Null or not, the Reybeorns decided not to sell, waiting for property values to rise even more.

  “And Walker, pissed off and dissed by both the Reybeorns and her former partner—in her mind, anyway—set out to get what she felt was rightfully hers.”

  “How?” That was what I couldn’t figure out. “I mean, if the Reybeorns’ agreement was only with Will, and she had reason to believe he had screwed her over…”

  “The only thing I can figure,” Nifty said, slowly, “is our original scenario—she assumed that she would then be able to force the legally remaining partner, through blackmail or guilt, to either sell it to her, so she could make a deal with the developers, or sell directly and cut her in for her share—presumably more than the original agreement, since the Reybeorns were now out of the picture. So everyone wins.”

  “Except the dead people,” Pietr said.

  “A valid point. I’m thinking maybe she wasn’t all that worried about them.”

  Sharon cupped her mug of coffee in both hands, as though she was suffering hypothermia and that was the only source of warmth in the room. “It might have worked,” she said. “It would have worked, except that our client wasn’t happy with the cause of death findings, and got too many people involved, making everything drag out even longer and delaying her ability to confront Arcazy, because the estate wasn’t settled yet.”

  “Do you think she hired a Talent to do the job for the irony?” Pietr asked. “I mean, since the Reybeorns wouldn’t let her play, she hired one of their own to do the job on them? Or was she trying to frame her ex-partner for the job?”

  “No way to know, short of a miraculous confessional paper turning up in her belongings, and I’m not going to hold my breath for that.” Ian reached up and took his hair out of the thong, shaking it loose a little. I’ve never had any objections to my hair, really, but when I was a kid I would have done anything for hair like his.

  I thought about that thought for a second, and amended it. Almost anything.

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “This morning I attended a session of the Midwest Council.” That explained the suit and hair. God, they must have met at the crack of dawn, out there! I suppose it was an extraordinary session….

  “I gave all of our information to the client, and then to the Council itself. It has taken full accountability, since it was their locale and their people, and they have announced their solemn intent to track down the killer.”

  “And insist she get a license and pay tithe in order to continue working in their region?” Pietr was cynical. I couldn’t really say as I blamed him, because that did sound like Council rationale.

  “Maybe. Who knows. I don’t think even the Council knows, right now.” Venec seemed honestly vexed, especially in the face of Ian’s cool, calm collectedness. “We’re not enforcement, just investigation, and nobody’s ever had to deal with a case like this, a hired killer within the community.”

  “They’re still working out the details,” Ian said, still calm. “But the proceeds of the property sale, when it sells, will go to the rightful heirs, not either partner involved in the original deception. We made sure that they won’t profit. And word will get out that we made sure they didn’t profit.”

  On the surface it seemed unfair to poor Will, who hadn’t—far as we could determine—been involved in the murders at all. But by Council standards, it was fair and just, and Will was Council; he had to have known that, from the very beginning, whatever his motives. It sucked, but there it was.

  “And we were paid our full fee, for a job accomplished. For a Council member, no less.” Nifty tried to smile. “Guess we’re gonna be around for another few months, huh?”

  “At least. I’ve already renewed the lease.”

  You could almost hear the sighs of relief coming from all the pups, me included.

  “I also…” There was a pause. “I also made a contribution to the funeral expenses of the boy who died. And the Council has matched it.”

  I closed my eyes against the prickling sensation, and tried to force away the guilt that hit me again. This time, it was Nick’s hand in mine that squeezed comfort.

  “Is your sister…” Nick started to ask, and then trailed off, I guess not re
ally knowing what to say. None of us did.

  “I don’t think she’s going to be a…physical problem again,” Ian said wryly, finally folding his long legs under him to sit on the floor next to the sofa. He still sat upright, though, not collapsed against the nearest support like the rest of us. “The Council might have turned a blind and approving eye to her harassing us, but her timing and the resulting death of the boy has embarrassed them greatly.”

  Someone snorted in disgust, and I had to agree. They should be a hell of a lot more than embarrassed. The boy had just been getting his damn braces checked at the orthodontist’s office on the 5th floor. Twelve—a child. A baby.

  “I know,” he said to us all. “I know. But they are what they are, and part of what they are is distanced. And you need to learn to do the same. What happened here was in no way your fault. Aden bears some responsibility, as do I for not stopping her firmly the moment the attacks started, rather than waiting for her to wear herself out. But the weight of that death needs to be placed squarely on the shoulders of our killer. Rest assured, when she is caught—and she will be caught—that is one of the things that will be considered in her punishment.”

  I had the weird, unformed thought that Ian wasn’t, entirely, talking about the Council’s judgment. No sooner had that thought half surfaced, though, than it dug itself back in. I didn’t want to know. Not right now. I couldn’t handle any more responsibility. Not right now. Not until I’d dealt with my own guilt, my own responsibility. My own failure.

  I guess I zoned out a bit, because when I came back to the conversation, the team had moved on to their plans for what Stosser had apparently declared “Downtime Days.”

  “How about you, Bonnie?” Nick asked. “Gonna go find lawyer-boy and kick off a little steam?”

  I tried not to let it sting, but I guess something escaped. Pietr’s hand touched my shoulder, briefly, and only the fact that I knew his touch let me identify it because, as usual, I didn’t see him.

  “Oh hell.” For the first time in the months I’d known her, Sharon’s voice actually sounded…not warm, exactly, but empathetic. “Bonnie…I’m sorry.”

  I let myself shrug, even knowing that somehow J would hear about it and read me a lecture about posture and appearances, later. “He didn’t take kindly to being suspected. By us, but especially by me. You’d think a lawyer would understand, but…” The vibe I’d gotten in the office was pretty clear. The brush-off I’d gotten when I tried to call his office just now had been even clearer. I didn’t even reach his assistant—the receptionist told me, in a professionally flat tone that my call wasn’t being picked up. No, he couldn’t leave a message.

  Whatever Will and I might have had was dead before it even got started.

  There was a bar down the street from my apartment that I kept passing, and never having a chance to check out. It turned out to be a nice, quiet kind of bar: not a pickup palace, just a place where you could go in and grab a drink and have a quiet conversation with friends or maybe a new date. Comfortable chairs, sturdy wooden tables, and efficient bartenders: It was a good place for a first date, clean and well-lit and the booze was solid but not froufrou. And they poured a damn good vodka martini.

  *bonnie?*

  It was the third ping of the evening. I treated it the same way I treated the first two. I ignored it. The pack meant well, and eventually I knew I’d be more in the mood for a group hug, for sympathy and understanding, but…not right now.

  Eventually I’d have to sit down and really talk to J, too. Confirm our much-delayed dinner date. Catch him up on everything—everything I thought he needed to know, anyway. Deal with his occasionally fussy, nitpicking worry, because that was how he showed he cared.

  Caring was important.

  I’d gotten what I wanted—a job that meant something, that could actually make changes in the world. Be careful what you ask for, as the saying goes. Now that I had it, I didn’t know who—or what—this job was making me. But I had to keep caring. Otherwise…what was the point?

  It was just hard, some nights. To know that there was a killer out there, still, despite our best efforts. That a young boy had died because I wasn’t fast enough or strong enough to save him. That a man I liked thought I had somehow betrayed him, because I was doing my job…

  “Another?”

  The bartender’s name was Stacy, and she was a middle-aged woman with a long black braid and watchful gray eyes, like Pietr’s. She had the habit of appearing in front of you without a sound, like Pietr, too. I thought about asking her if she had any kids.

  “Yes, please.” Always be polite to your bartender. Especially your local neighborhood bartender.

  When I reached the bottom of my glass, the warning tightness in my forehead told me that it was probably time to call it a night, or risk the consequences. A small stubborn ghoul on my shoulder urged me to ignore that warning, and order another. Or maybe tequila, this time. Tequila would be good. Tequila would punish me properly, for not being fast enough. For not having enough current ready to make the net stronger. For not knowing who was innocent, and who was not-guilty. For not being perfect, right off the bat.

  A hand came down on my shoulder. I’d known someone was standing there, and still the contact surprised me. I restrained the urge to yelp, or throw my drink. Nick. Had to be. Unlike Pietr, the boy could not take a hint.

  “Come on, Torres.” The voice was familiar, but not the one I’d been expecting. It was warm, and rough, and totally devoid of pity. “Time to pour you into bed. Tomorrow it’s back to work.”

  I closed my eyes, and let my fingers unclench from my glass. Venec. I must be out of it, if he was able to slip up on me.

  “Torres?” he said, and waited for me to make my decision.

  An instant passed, where I told him to get lost, invited him to join me for a drink, quit.

  I slipped Stacy a folded tenner under my glass, and let him take me home.

  HARD MAGIC

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-5485-9

  Copyright © 2010 by Laura Anne Gilman

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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