Bring It On

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “’K.” He waved the sheet at her in an absentminded farewell, and went back downstairs, his size-tens a reassuringly solid thump-thump-hitch-thump on the wooden stairs.

  Aldo was good people. Sometimes, Wren got so caught up in her job, and the recent chaos between Council and lonejack and fatae, that she forgot she was part of another world, too. Ordinary people, with lowercase T talents and skills. People who lived and loved and looked at her not as The Wren, the best Retriever of her generation, but as a neighbor, a friend, a comrade in the city….

  A daughter.

  Wren tapped on the door frame absently, then finished turning the dead bolts.

  The Rosens had had a family, once, if photos didn’t lie too badly. Now they were Talent and Null, torn apart over a thing, a simple, stupid thing.

  Storm clouds rolling in. Shadows rising.

  Wren chewed on her upper lip thoughtfully a moment, tugging at a strand of hair that had escaped her braid, and then came to a decision. Going into the kitchen, she lifted the old-fashioned, clunky phone off the hook and punched in a number.

  “Mom. Hi. Oh, for—Who else is going to call you Mom?” Grinning, Wren perched herself on one of the stools, and settled in for a scolding. Her mother didn’t understand her, didn’t even pretend to understand what her only daughter did for a living, and didn’t approve, at all, of her relationship with Sergei, if only because Wren’s partner was a full decade older, but she had the fine and deeply appreciated gift of being able to see her daughter as an adult. That did not mean, however, that she was always able to let go. Entirely.

  That was okay. Wren wasn’t sure she was ever going to let go of her mother as “Mom,” either.

  “No, no reason for calling. I just wanted to check in, get my weekly dose of the ’burbs, remind me why I moved here…”

  “Because all the boys here bored you, as I recall.”

  It was good, that her mother was so absolute a Null. That way, Margot could pretend her daughter was just like everyone else, letting her focus on the normal things, the everyday things mothers worried about, whatever they were.

  There was a lot to be said for being Null, yeah. No Council, no wizzing, no idiot lonejacks with death wishes. But Wren wouldn’t ever choose it for herself.

  Well. She looked up at the ceiling, where the stains from the spy-bug infestation could still be seen if you squinted hard, and thought again. No. Not ever.

  But she was sometimes really, really glad her mom seemed incapable of remembering anything Cosa-related.

  8

  The clink of fine china and the shuffling of pens against paper barely disturbed the silence inside the room, until a voice raised in genteel inquiry.

  “How many votes do we have?”

  There wasn’t a moment’s pause before the answer came back—a man’s voice, hesitant as though uncertain if his news would be taken as good or bad. “Seven. Eight, if Davey breaks the way he should.”

  KimAnn Howe stared out the window, her petite frame held like a ballet dancer’s, almost casually elegant in her poise as though her shoulders had never once slumped, her back never been introduced to a curve. The view from the room was of a quiet tree-lined square, the very best neighborhood that money and influence could buy in Manhattan, but it could have been a blank wall for all the notice she took of it.

  “Eight isn’t enough. It would barely have carried us, before.” Her delicate hands rested on the window frame, only the papery texture of her skin and the carefully tended white of her hair betraying her age. “We need more than scraping past, Jacob. We need a solid, overwhelming majority. Otherwise the vultures will take us down, and everything I have done will have been in vain.”

  There were three of them, seated in a room dominated by a huge cream-colored marble fireplace. The interior was spotless, and instead of wood, in awareness of the still-warm weather, the grate had been replaced with a fan of golden straw and warm brown cattails that Martha Stewart might have envied. The furniture was mahogany, the perfect match for the massive boardroom table in the adjoining room, where the full Council would meet.

  Even though the building around them was filled with assistants, clerks, and lawyers going about the Council’s business, no noise reached into the room from outside, and none dared leave the room. No current was needed to ensure this; sturdy prewar construction assured it.

  The only male in the room, an older gentleman given to portliness around the middle, but with an aquiline face that made him seem fierce even in repose, placed his teacup down on the small, round table next to his chair and looked up at the first speaker.

  “What of Sebastian’s side? How many votes will he be able to muster?”

  She laughed, a delicate thing to match the bone china they were using. “He has less need to be diplomatic in his actions. They’re all roughnecks out there, anyway, and seem to respect a leader who tells them what to think, rather than requiring that they be led about by a golden chain attached to their privates.”

  The third woman: a younger brunette wearing a subtle blue-checked skirt suit and tan heels, almost choked on her tea in amusement. “You would be bored with that obedient a Council,” she said, using more familiarity in her words than most would, when speaking to the de facto, if untitled leader of the Northeastern Council.

  “Hush, Colleen,” the man said.

  “No, the child is right. Never scold her for being right, Jacob. Sebastien has his own way of doing things, and I have mine, and we complement each other well. That is why I chose to approach him in the first place.”

  That, and the fact that the San Diego Council already had a reputation for maverick moves, unconventional behavior, and taking no guff from lonejacks, most of whom packed up and left for greener if more expensive pastures in Los Angeles or Las Vegas.

  No, Sebastian Bailey suited her quite well. Suited her, and her purposes, and her plans.

  KimAnn looked down at the slim packet of papers she still held in her hand, almost forgotten—but not quite. “And this—” she indicated the offending papers by the simple act of raising her hand, drawing attention back to them “—merely confirms that I was right to do so.”

  The single page letter had arrived that morning, not by fatae courier but Null express delivery service. KimAnn still was not sure if that was intended as some sort of commentary, or if they had simply not been able to hire a fatae willing to come here, to the heart of the Council.

  Fools. She had nothing against the fatae, so long as they maintained their place, and did not try to interfere. And she would certainly never harm one merely for doing its job.

  Unlike others within the Council she could but wouldn’t name, KimAnn saw no point in killing the messengers for the failures of their employers. That was bad management. Kill an underling, you lose the use of it.

  “I still say we should have made another attempt to neutralize the Retriever,” the man said. “She’s going to be a roadblock—she’s already challenged us once, and gotten away with it. That sets a bad example.”

  Speaking of bad management—was she the only one here with any sense whatsoever? KimAnn pursed her lips, staring out into the lights of the distance, then shook her head. “Never, ever give your opposition a martyr-saint, Jacob. Especially one who is so much more useful alive and neutralized.

  “Fact—her name is not signed onto this letter. She may agree with them, she may even meet with them but she has not cast her lot entirely in with these idiots. I’ve met the girl, taken her measure. Genevieve Valere is many things, but first and foremost she is a lonejack. And that means that she is selfish, self-involved, and, while not easily buyable, quite predictable. If we push thus, she will go in the direction we choose.” KimAnn’s voice was coolly neutral, a general evaluating a battle plan of her own devising. “I am more concerned with creating consensus within our own ranks.”

  “Meaning?” Jacob asked, his voice reaching for the same cool distance his superior had perfected.

&nbs
p; “Meaning, what about Nola?” KimAnn asked, ticking names off in her steel-trap mind. “Where does she stand?”

  “Squarely in the ‘this is a bad idea’ camp, I fear. She admires and respects you, and for that she has not spoken up against it, but she will not follow us.”

  The de facto Council leader dismissed that with a wave of her hand, the tapered fingers bare save for a simple white gold wedding band. “Will she oppose us?”

  Almost forgotten in the moment, Colleen repressed a shiver at the even tone of those words. Not so much for what was being said, as what was being asked. Would Nola, a woman who had served the Mage Council for as long as Colleen could remember, who had family history of serving, back to the founders of the Northeastern Council—would she too be taken down without pity, without second thought, in order for Madame Howe to get her votes?

  Jacob considered the question. “She is a practical woman. I suspect that she will soon evidence a desire to take on a new student, one whose skill level is such that it will demand much of her time and energy.”

  “Nola did always have the heart of a mentor,” KimAnn said in agreement. “I would be sorry to lose her as a member of the Mage Council, but there could be no better use for her abilities, I agree.”

  The muscles between Colleen’s shoulder blades unknotted slightly. Her loyalty was unquestioned; she would do as Madame Howe thought best. But there were better ways to show it, to her mind, than the stiletto, no matter how elegantly turned. The feel of the knife turning, the sound of the body as it hit the stones, the shocked and nervous silence quickly covered by nervous flutterings of social chatter, as they all, including her, pretended that nothing had happened…it wasn’t something you forgot, anytime soon.

  Please, Colleen thought to whatever power might be listening. Please, don’t let anyone else oppose Madame Howe’s plans for a Joint Council. Let them all understand, this is the only way to save us all…

  “All right then.”

  KimAnn turned away from the window, finally, and Colleen uncapped her fountain pen and poised herself to begin taking notes.

  “Inasmuch as certain changes have occurred within the community, involving all factions of the Cosa Nostradamus, I find myself torn between the traditions I have worked all my life to uphold, and the very real danger to the Mage’s Council as it was envisioned, as a stand between the chaos of old magics and the rational use of the new.

  “In order to maintain that stand, it is the opinion of this Council of the Metropolitan Northeastern Seaboard that further steps must be taken to demonstrate the seriousness of this threat to our unaffiliated counterparts, in the hopes that they will join with us, rather than with the forces of such chaos…”

  Colleen kept writing.

  After Aldo’s visit, Wren had felt as if the walls of her apartment were closing in around her. She had grabbed the most intriguing of her materials, shoved them into her oversized, bright yellow shoulder bag/makeshift attaché case, and headed out the door.

  She had meant just to go down to the coffee shop, have a couple dozen cups of spectacularly bad coffee and get some work done. Instead she had found her way to Sergei’s, where the High Altar of Italian Caffeine waited.

  The doorman on duty—by profession trained to see people without actually seeing them—merely looked up and nodded when she walked in. No excessive politeness, no solicitous greeting, just a faint nod and then back down to his newspaper.

  Wren liked that. A lot. Maybe too much. She wasn’t a doorman-type person, really.

  Sergei had been home, much to her surprise. She had forgotten that it was Friday. The gallery was Lowell’s domain on Fridays. Sergei claimed that he was training his assistant to someday take over, so he could retire somewhere warm and quiet. Nobody believed him, not even Lowell.

  Wren didn’t like Lowell, but she never thought he was stupid. Supercilious, stiff, arrogant and overproud of his limited abilities, yes, but not stupid. He wasn’t expecting to inherit—just to learn enough from the best to go open his own place someday and compete. She could respect that.

  Like the doorman, Sergei was reading the newspaper. Unlike the doorman, he got up and greeted her properly. When she could breathe again, she waved the yellow bag in his face. He understood, and went back to his newspaper and tea, while she set up shop at the kitchen counter, spreading papers and starting the coffee to brew.

  The invite had arrived a few hours later, via courier demon—not P.B., but a stranger—thin and hairless, but with the same dense musculature and dark red eyes that mark the breed. There was something about demon, something in their genetic stew, that made them gravitate naturally toward carrying messages, keeping secrets. Wren had never asked P.B. anything about his past—none of her business—but she did sometimes wonder about demon history. All anyone knew was that they were a mutation of an original, older fatae line; that they didn’t breed true, assuming they bred at all, and none of them ever talked about it. Ever.

  This courier had handed the invite to Wren and scuttled back out the door of Sergei’s apartment without waiting for a response. A nice change from P.B.’s usual hand-over-and-open-fridge routine. But unnerving, too. There weren’t that many demon in Manhattan: she hadn’t had anyone other than P.B. courier for her in almost a year. And to have it delivered here, to Sergei’s apartment rather than her own place, meant it was probably time-urgent.

  And that the sender, whoever it was, knew where she was. That might just be innocent coincidence…or a warning.

  She opened the letter carefully, using an ivory letter-opener Sergei kept on his desk. Blessed by some shaman or another, it was supposed to keep bad news at bay. What it actually did—Wren had discovered while using it to clean under her nails, one afternoon—was prevent anything laced with current from “grabbing” at her while she opened the envelope. Useful—if she could ever track down the shaman, she would have ordered a dozen of them, plus another dozen door handles, to prevent nasty surprises inside.

  Speaking of nasty surprises inside…

  The invitation was drawn on the traditional vellum and with lovely, organic inks, which was nice, and used oddly stilted formal language, which wasn’t. Wren knew that there were a lot of people who found the old ways to be charming, if not downright soothing. She wasn’t one of them. Old wasn’t better. Old magics were unpredictable; seven different methods got you eight different results. No, she wasn’t nostalgic at all.

  Invite was pretty to look at, though. Until the wording actually sunk in.

  Another Moot, or meeting, this one specifically called to discuss and deliberate, in their words “the situation dire and dreadful brought upon us by our cousins of the Mage Council.”

  Unlike the last one, which she had been dragged to by Lee’s request to stop it, here she was to be an honored guest and participant.

  “Oh, lovely.” She tossed the invitation down on the table so that Sergei could read it as well. He skimmed it, then raised one eyebrow in the way she really wished that she could imitate, the way that should have caused lots of Spock jokes but never did. Not to his face, anyway. Or hers.

  “That’s…interesting. You planning on going?”

  He was sitting on the sofa, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, only a sliver of his attention given to Wren’s news and reaction.

  “No.”

  That got his attention. He put down the papers and looked at her over the top of his glasses until she relented.

  “Of course I’m going to go. I got an invite. How can I not go?”

  Sergei didn’t look happy. He remembered all too well what happened last time. Well, so did she. Vividly. “When is it?”

  “Tonight. I guess they didn’t want to give me too much time to think about it.”

  She didn’t tell him that she already knew about the Moot. Sort of. That she would be going, not because she felt any obligation, but because a Seer had already Seen her there.

  You’ve got some serious shit going on here, Valere
. Talk to the man.

  Yeah, she would. When she figured out what she was going to say. “Hi, I took a client on without you, and by the way, Seers have been Seeing me taking a major stand in all the politicking going on, and I think that we all really really should leave town. Right now.” That’d all go over well.

  She’d much rather deal with a Moot. On her own. While juggling orangutans.

  “You want—”

  “No. Thanks.” If the Seer hadn’t seen Sergei there, or at least hadn’t seen fit to mention the fact of his being there—she didn’t want him anywhere near it. It wasn’t his job, it wasn’t his fight, it shouldn’t be his problem. She could take care of herself, damn it.

  “You got plans for the rest of the day?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Had thought about going down to the gallery this afternoon, see if I can get a head start on the week’s paperwork before the Kautsman delivery.”

  “Kautsman?”

  “Avant-garde. You’d hate it.” Sergei’s dry tone indicated that he wasn’t all that thrilled with it, either, but he thought that it would sell. He only took on new artists for one of two reasons: he thought they were brilliant, or he thought they would make him potloads of money so he could afford the brilliant ones. Fewer scruples would make the Sergei Didier Gallery a better-known name, but that wasn’t what he was about.

  Well, not entirely, she amended her thought. Her partner had expensive tastes, and no desire to give them up for a life of aesthetic poverty. She respected that—people who found dignity in poverty were generally people who didn’t really understand what it meant not to have money. She understood, firsthand—it sucked.

  “I’m going to go back to my place, do some cleanup work.” Her grimace wasn’t entirely feigned—she did have to do something with the Nescanni job paperwork, at some point. Having things unfiled messed with the essential planning part of her brain that needed everything in its place before it could function. Not to mention the twist it put into her year-end financials. She might not—thank God—have to deal with all the paperwork more legitimate freelancers were smacked with, but bank accounts and stock investments and IRAs all had to be documented and accounted for, one way or another.