Bring It On

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “No,” Michaela agreed. “But it is as treacherous to cross.”

  “You have been gathering in secret, massing, and making alliances. Without contacting us. It would be remiss of the Mage Council if we did not make an inquiry.”

  “Queries involve querying. Not spying.”

  Sez you, was the answer implicit in KimAnn’s simple shrug. The very movement set off the differences between them: Madame Howe in her elegant suit and heels, pearl earrings and expensive shoes, against Rick’s jeans, biker boots and leather jacket, Michaela’s flowing gauze skirts and denim top, or even Wren’s and Bart’s casual khakis and pullover tops. They were dressed for agility, speed, and comfort. She was dressed for business.

  “Yes, Stephanie was passing along information to me. But not as much as you might choose to believe, else why would I be standing here before you?”

  “To me,” not “to the Council.” Wren, thinking that she sensed an opening, nudged a feeler of current in Howe’s way, only to have it slapped down by…something outside of Madame. Shellfish—Talents who body-guarded not the body but the core; their own bodies safely hidden away, their entire existence subsumed into being the shell-protection around their client’s core. It didn’t keep her from being attacked, but would turn any but the most persistent touch away like an unwanted Seventh Day Adventist at the door.

  Shellfish were legend. No self-respecting lonejack would give up their existence to protect another. The Council…Wren wondered, suddenly, if becoming a Shellfish was a choice…or a decision made for you.

  Focus on the moment, Valere!

  “It might have been a trap, to take out three more lonejacks who stand against you,” Michaela countered.

  “Lonejacks have always rejected the Council. It is what makes you lonejacks. Why should you four be any different?”

  Four. She saw all of them. Including Wren, who had been promoting her no-see’um since they walked through the door. That fact was noted and ignored as being irrelevant right now.

  “An excellent question,” Michaela responded. “What has changed, in the past few years, that we have become a noticeable thorn in your side? What has changed, that you feel the need to clean house of the riff-raff cluttering your nice clean, well-organized house?”

  Careful…. Wren warned her companions on a soft Push of current. They didn’t want to get sidetracked; the answers might be interesting, but it would also distract the Mage’s attention, and Wren needed it as focused as possible, for her to read the reactions.

  “The Council was not responsible for the attack on you.” Blunt words, laid down with the sizzle of current. How much of it was true, how much an act?

  “You admit to picking us off one by one, and yet expect us to believe this was not your act?”

  “We have admitted to nothing, except differences of opinion.” KimAnn seemed to soften, just a shade, and Wren was immediately suspicious.

  “My sisters, brothers. The Council had nothing to do with the attack on you, or the fatae in your company. We wish you to join us, yes. And we have taken steps, on occasion, to keep those who would harm us at bay.” What steps, and what they considered “harm” were left open to interpretation, and Wren couldn’t read anything off her. Madame Howe was good, damn good.

  “And the fatae?”

  Wren held her breath, and KimAnn looked puzzled. It wasn’t an expression that came naturally to her.

  “What of the fatae? We have no place for them in our organization, nor would they wish to join us, any more than they have ever joined with you.”

  A fishing expedition. Hold, Wren warned the troika. Keep yourselves stilled. Give nothing away.

  “Madame Howe.” When Bart got polite, it was time to worry. “You placed an informant within our inner councils. A traitor, who chose to die rather than be unmasked.”

  Not exactly true—they hadn’t stopped to give her a choice. But the strength of her reaction to discovery had exonerated them of too much guilt in that matter. For Wren, at least. Or maybe she has just pulled an overskin of “Sergei” over the sore until it healed.

  “Forgive us if we do not believe any protestations of innocence—or even not-guilt—which comes from the Council now, or any time in the future.”

  “I can assure you—”

  “No. You can’t.” Michaela, as hard-voiced as granite. Although Wren could judge the flips and flares of current, there was no such thing as a truth seer outside of fairy tales; mind-to-mind doesn’t mean you can’t lie, especially someone as strong-minded as Madame Howe. The lonejack representative was laying down the cold hard facts. “You’ve given us nothing to make us trust you…not even an explanation for why a member of an outside Council was in town—and seen meeting with a known anti-fatae vigilante.”

  That was a revelation, and only Michaela’s gentle pressure back on Wren’s current kept her from zipping her head around to stare—or glare—at the gypsy representative.

  “If a competing Council member can be in your city, working to means you claim not to support, without your knowledge, then how can we possibly trust your ability to control your side of the Cosa? And if this was done with your knowledge and approval…” The implication of that was left to an ominous trailing-off of Michaela’s voice.

  Wren could see KimAnn forcibly relaxing herself, inch by inch; Michaela’s news had come as a surprise to her as well, then, although not all of it.

  “You knew another Council was in the city.” Wren spoke without thinking, in her shock. That as almost unheard of: the Councils were encouraged to be territorial, to keep them as isolated as possible. An alliance was not—

  “You invited them here.” Wren didn’t know why she was so certain, but she was. It was the act of an insane person…or a supremely smart, savvy, and confident one. “You alone, not the Council entire.” Sergei had been right, had been dead-on about what was happening.

  Rick made a move as though he wanted to put the Council leader into a headlock, then checked himself.

  “What game are you playing, Madame Howe?” he asked, instead.

  Wren could hear the wind overhead, outside the stone courtyard, but inside the stones it was still, as though even the plantings were waiting to hear her response.

  “One you have chosen to sit out,” the older woman said finally. “You were invited—” that got a snort of un-amused laughter out of Bart “—yes, invited to join us. Perhaps our methods were extreme at times, but we tried only to show you how very much safer it was within the protection of the Council rather than floating, alone and aimless, at the fringes.”

  “Safe, the way Mash was safe? Is he safe now, Madame Howe?” Mash had been an older Talent, a lonejack of considerable reputation, much loved within the Cosa, who went missing from his home one day, without warning. Without any clues even the best PUP could find.

  “The end justifies the means,” KimAnn said, an indirect but damning reply, and Wren felt her core begin to seethe with the need to do something—anything—to wipe that arrogant expression off the older woman’s face.

  “This meeting is over,” Rick said. He turned without waiting to see if the others were with him, and walked out of the courtyard, back into the dimly lit recesses of the Cloisters.

  After a moment, the other three followed him, leaving KimAnn alone with her shadows in the morning sunlight.

  21

  “Hi, honey, I’m home.” Sergei walked in the door, then did a double-take at the stranger sitting with Wren. “Oh. Hi.”

  Wren waved her hand, quietly amused at the blush staining Sergei’s cheekbones. “My partner, Sergei. Sergei, this is Bonnie.”

  “Pleasetameetya,” Bonnie said, half-rising from her chair.

  “Likewise, I am sure.” He gave Wren a casual once-over, and she nodded. The visitor was okay, no worries.

  Reassured, Sergei hoisted the large-ish canvas bag he was carrying and, humming gently under his breath, went down the hallway with it.

  Bonnie sat bac
k down, and Wren shook her head in mock sadness. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?”

  The sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, and the crisp air that came through it carried the smell of someone somewhere charring meat over a grill. Probably the couple in apartment #4, up on the roof again. Familiar sights, sounds and smells…Lee’s ghost was still in the woodwork, everywhere she turned, but that was okay.

  The world was tipping enough on its axis, Wren wasn’t ready to give up the things that were right, just because they were difficult to live with, sometimes, day by day.

  “The landlord’s not always good about repairs. And apartment #3—that’s Clyde—likes to wander around nude—which no, isn’t a good thing. At all.”

  Bonnie leaned against the back of the chair she was straddling, and merely smiled at Wren. “If you’re trying to scare me away, it’s too late. I already signed the rental agreement.”

  “Once P.B. learns there’s another lonejack in the building, he’s going to be raiding your fridge, too.”

  “I have two brothers. I know how to lockbox my food.”

  Wren blinked, then grinned. “Without spoiling the food? You’re going to have to teach me that little trick. Consider it payback for letting you know there was an apartment available.”

  “I already had my Realtor looking into it,” Bonnie countered. “But since I would never have known about this place without you calling us in, I think I can do that one small thing.”

  They shook hands on it, then Bonnie looked at the old-fashioned wind-up clock on the wall and made an exclamation of dismay. “And I was supposed to be at work twenty minutes ago. I’ll catch you later, ’kay? Neighbor.” She waggled her fingers, nails painted a sparkly pink this time, and disappeared.

  “Show-off,” Wren muttered. Translocation was one of the few things she was very very bad at, and it was still a sore subject. Still. Bonnie seemed nice enough, and having someone with those skills handy wouldn’t be a bad thing…but they were going to have to set some guidelines about Translocing in and out of the apartment like that, without warning. Wren had things she kept private. Especially from a professional snoop.

  Reaching down below the table, Wren pulled the small, current-shimmering box out from under the chair where she’d hurriedly stashed it when the PUP came calling, placing it back on the table proper.

  Technically she was in breach of her agreement with the client, having Retrieved the item and then substituting a forgery in the exchange. But if you were going to play technical, had Wren known what she was being asked to Retrieve from the beginning…

  Stepmomma hadn’t been wrong to try to keep the Artifact from Rosen: her mistake came in not sitting the girl down and explaining it, instead of trying to protect her.

  But love made you do stupid things, sometimes. Wren only hoped that the two of them would be able to repair the relationship, someday. Melanie might be Anna’s only hope of escaping whoever had set her up in the first place, when they discovered the necklace she gave them wasn’t real. Although if Wren’s theory was correct and KimAnn was behind it, she was also the source of Anna’s knowledge of the failed attempt, and would know exactly what had been done, and why.

  As Sergei had said, none of them could do anything to stop KimAnn. Not until she revealed more of her hand, anyway. At least they weren’t alone in the waiting, anymore. The troika’s decision to offer an alliance to the fatae had been considered, accepted and ratified by seventy percent of the attending species, and more were falling into place as gossip spread.

  And if KimAnn did blame Anna for the fake necklace? If…

  If anything happened to Anna, Wren would tell Melanie who had been responsible.

  It wasn’t just a question of finishing the job. You had to finish it right.

  The sounds of hammering came from the hallway, followed by a sharp burst of cursing in Russian, and Wren winced. A package had arrived yesterday afternoon in the mall, addressed to her—a small brown parcel containing the most exquisite piece of silk Wren had ever seen; pale green, with delicate brushstrokes evoking a stand of bamboo and a tiny bird, almost invisible until you spotted it, and then impossible to miss. The enclosed note that said, simply, “A thank you for letting me play in your city.”

  Shig, back home and doubtless dining out on his adventures—and adding to the overblown legend that Wren’s reputation was becoming. At this point, Wren could only grimace and accept it. She never meant for things to get that complicated…

  Sergei had taken one look at the chop, or signature, on it, and guestimated its worth at least several thousand dollars, then promptly gone down to the Gallery to get the proper hanging tools.

  For a guy who spent most of his adult life selling art, he wasn’t too handy at actually hanging things, though. For a moment, she almost missed his overbred, overpolished assistant, who despite his other flaws was actually pretty handy with a hammer. Not that she’d ever let him into her home, not unless it was life or death and he was the last paramedic on earth.

  The cage in front of her glimmered, a pale shade of green racing through the red, and she touched the current lightly with one finger, bringing it back to a steady red shade.

  Too many distractions here. It needed somewhere calmer to rest. Somewhere less likely for current use to stimulate it.

  Somewhere less likely for someone to lay hands on it, even accidentally. Even with the best of intentions in the world.

  There was a piece of fabric on the table, folded into a neat square. She unfolded it, shaking out the heavy, lead-lined cloth, and draped it over the current-cage.

  Then, almost despite herself, like watching someone else move her body, she stood and walked over to the phone, lifting the receiver and dialing her mother’s cell phone number.

  “Mom. Hi. Your youngest.” She didn’t think that her voice sounded that odd, did it?

  “I just wanted to say thanks for lunch. How’s Toronto?”

  Her mother started telling her about the lovely restaurants, and the lovely hotel, and the lovely weather. Wren murmured the right responses, but mainly just let the familiar voice wash over her like a verbal security blanket It was enough that her mother was out of the line of fire, for now.

  She watched the Artifact, carefully, while she listened. Left alone, red current-sparks flickered and flared under the lead-lined fabric, almost like the pulsing of a squared-off heart. It was going overseas, to the monastery. The monk in charge there owed her a favor, by God. Whatever this thing was, the need to own it broke apart what had been at least a friendly relationship. It wasn’t anything she wanted anywhere near her. And she won’t trust the actual Mage Council with mud, at this point. Not after they had—as far as the Cosa’s best sniffers could tell—funded the vigilantes into taking out the fatae as part of their plan to break the lonejacks’ independence. A move that was not, apparently, supported by all Council members.

  That was the most worrisome thing, to Wren’s mind, the distrust growing within the Council of its own leadership. Bart had started digging, after their meeting with KimAnn, and what that annoying but effective badger had dug up had made a lot of things suddenly start to make sense. In addition to the lonejacks who had gone missing, several members of the Council were unaccounted for, as well. Unexpected vacations, or running off with their secretaries, or merely taking a rest cure…nobody was talking. Unlike lonejacks, when Council got scared, they stopped gossiping. And that explained why Worth-Rosen hadn’t gone to the greater Council with the Artifact on her own, once she inherited it. Her husband might have died from an illness, rather than being murdered as his daughter claimed…but Wren highly doubted that the illness had happened without a push, magical or medicinal.

  Worse, members of another Council were in town. Specifically, highly placed members of the San Jose Mage Council, including KimAnn’s counterpart, Sebastian somethingorother.

  That was forbidden, by rule and tradition. And KimAnn Howe had always come down
hard on the side of rule and tradition.

  No, the Mage Council was no longer to be trusted, not with anything. They were no longer Cosa. It didn’t take a Moot for that to be decided; word was already spreading throughout the city. A month from now, by the time the weather changed toward winter, new lines would be drawn.

  Wren thought, fleetingly, of running. She had a reputation, she could work anywhere.

  But where would she go? This was her home.

  She would fight for it.

  “Valere!”

  “Hang on a sec, Mom,” she said into the phone, cutting her mother off midrecital.

  “Come take a look at this,” Sergei said, appearing around the corner. “I don’t want you bitching later that I hung it crooked.”

  Wren smiled, saying her goodbye to her mother with a promise to call soon, and followed her partner down the hallway.

  They’d fight—tomorrow. Today, there was art to display.

  BRING IT ON

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-2948-2

  Copyright © 2006 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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