Retrievers - Burning Bridges Part 16

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 a.s.sholes 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 d.a.m.ned 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 d.a.m.ned 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 over rush, had shared the thoughts of mages fighting against madness to get out one more rational thought before sinking back into the mora.s.s. 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 s.e.x; 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 13 miles long and 2 miles wide, but it was still impressive, even discounting the weather.

She was downtown, all the way downtown, near the financial district. It was closed 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 bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 a.s.sortment 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 rea.s.sured.

"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 G.o.d. 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, h.e.l.l. 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 rea.s.suring 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 h.e.l.l 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 d.a.m.ned hero. I'm not a leader. I'm a d.a.m.ned 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 white coat and cap against the wall of the building across the street. The street lamp 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-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- "d.a.m.n 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."

"Yes, run, " she urged the fatae in a whisper, then louder "Run over here!" If the two of them could hear the humans, maybe the fatae could hear them, as well. If it could make it to the apartment, she would be able to protect them all...

The fatae, rather than running, let out another squeal, twin to the one that had alerted them. Run, or stay, it could not defend itself three-to-one, and the attackers started to move in for the kill.

"Screw this!" P.B. was halfway to the apartment door when Wren caught him by the arm and pulled him back. "Don't, " she said urgently.

"What, you don't think I can handle them?"

"I know you can, " she said. He had already dispatched one of these bigots' dogs, and she never wanted to know the details of how. But there were two humans, as well, and she was a s.h.i.t fighter, even at her best. She wasn't going to let him get killed, not when there was another way. "Let the patrols handle it. That's what they're here for."

"Truce's broken, Valere. n.o.body's going to come."

"Maybe. Maybe not." She had seen the Patrols reporting in. The Council Mouthpiece had been right, if annoying: there was more going on there, on the front lines, than following orders. If there was anything of what they had tried to build, it would last beyond petty politicking. She hoped. Oh how she hoped...

"There. Did you feel that?" A vibration, starting in the hollow behind her earlobe, only deeper in, sliding down her neck like a caress. Her call had gone through, after all. Or someone's had, anyway. She doubted they were the only ones looking out their windows. Hopefully if anyone actually called the NYPD, the right people had gotten the call and forwarded it on.

"Nuh-uh." P.B. was still straining against her hold, but not seriously: if he'd wanted to, he could have broken the grip-and her hand into the bargain. "Valere, I've got to, we've got to stop that."

"It's okay. She's been heard. Let them do it."

"Them" was the pair walking up the snow-coated street, an easy lope that seemed as though they had all the time in the world, even as they covered the ground in no time at all. Wren couldn't help but expect to hear the soundtrack from an old Western start to play in the background, the shussshing of the snow subst.i.tuting for the blowing of tumbleweeds.

With the newcomers' backs to them, Wren and P.B. couldn't hear what was being said, but the body language was clear. The two Patrollers, one with a long, slender tail twitching underneath the ankle-length coat, confronted the attackers. The dog snarled and lurched at the one with the tail, and his companion reacted with a flash of current that set the dog back on its haunches, looking up at its owner as though to ask "what the h.e.l.l was that?"

"Not the dog's fault, " Wren murmured, to which P.B. gave an eloquent and disagreeing snort. He wasn't fond of dogs on a good day; she had never asked why.

Tail-guy turned out to have claws P.B. might have envied, and he used them well, springing into action without any warning whatsoever. Wren had no idea what breed he was, either, but she knew that she never wanted to meet him in a dark alley. Or a well-lit one, for that matter.

His companion, the Talent, seemed content to hang back and let the fatae do his thing. Once he was convinced that things were well in-hand, er, claw, he turned to the would-be victim and, hand held out in what was meant to be a soothing manner, seemed to be asking permission to approach.

The streetlight fell on him as he moved into the direct glow, and Wren was able to make out a secondary armband under the Patrol one. White, with crossed red stripes through it. A medic. Smart-she didn't think the Double-Quad had come up with that, it was something that the Patrols had thought of on their own. A symbol everyone recognized, in one form or another: if not "I come in peace" then "I come with bandages."

"It's okay. They've got it under control, " she said to P.B., who was still quivering with the need to get into the scrum. "Look." One of the vigilantes was on the ground, not moving. The dog was nowhere to be seen; Wren just hoped it had run off, and not gone down someone's gullet as an after-dinner snack. The other human was backing up, slowly, limping a little, as the tailed fatae advanced on him; a two-step pushing the human up off the street, onto the sidewalk.

The medic turned from his patient and made an impatient gesture toward his partner, telling him to stop playing with the human-toy and get over there. The fatae hesitated, clearly wanting to finish what it had started, and the medic made the gesture again. The fatae's tail lashed once, angrily, but backed down from the human, going to his partner's side.

The human, freed from direct threat, ran, disappearing into the white-frosted shadows, and the falling snow quickly filled in his footsteps. Meanwhile, the medic was picking up the smaller fatae, cradling her-him? It?-in his arms as they headed back down the street, presumably to better medical facilities. Wren thought, only then, to call them inside, where it was warm. But they were halfway down the street, and she didn't know what kind of supplies P.B. had in here, anyway. Better to let them take the victim somewhere they were set up to treat her, and hopefully get useful information out of the report.

"We should-"

"We are not going after them." P.B. snarled at her, black gums pulled away from gleaming white teeth, and Wren snarled right back at him.

They pulled themselves back into the apartment, shaking snow off fur and hair, and P.B. shut the window with a firm slam, probably more than was needed. "Maybe you're right, " the demon said in bloodthirsty satisfaction. "That human excuse for garbage will go back and tell the rest of them we're not to be messed with."