Retrievers - Burning Bridges Part 7

"One of the things Andre let slip, during one of our conversations a while ago, was that some of their operatives have gone missing, too. Talented operatives."

Wren started to say something, then held her words, indicating that he should continue.

"It started almost...no, more than a year ago, now. They just disappeared, didn't report to work. At first, they-Andre-thought that they were caught up in what was going down between the Council and lonejacks, or that they had just gotten bored and backed off, or some normal...

"But it's too much of a coincidence. I dislike coincidences."

"It's slim, " she said, opening her eyes and looking, not at him, but at the candles still flickering on Lee's candelabra. She focused, and one by one each tiny flame went out, a thin trail of smoke rising from each wick. "Slim, but you're right, the timing is ugly. You'll find out more?"

"How much am I allowed to give them, in return?"

She did look at him then. "Nothing."

He sighed, but wasn't surprised. "I'll do what I can."

And with that, she stood up, reached down to take his hand in her own, and tugged him to his feet, down the hallway, and into bed. A minute later, he went back down the hall to pick up the coverlet from the floor, shake pastry crumbs off it, and return to the bedroom.

When he came in, she was already naked, pulling something from the dresser drawer. A small something, tied with tasteful silver-and-white wrapping paper, and a single strand of silver ribbon around it.

"Merry Christmas, " she said, holding it out to him.

He raised an eyebrow in the way he knew she loved, and took it from her. It was surprisingly heavy, for a box barely the size of his open palm. Sitting on the side of the bed he merely said, "Look under the bed."

She blinked, and then swung headfirst over the bed, like a five-year-old looking for a friendly bed-monster. All right, a rather grown-up, naked, highly appealing-in-that-position...and she didn't look five years old at all, no.

Chuckling, he carefully undid the wrapping on his present.

"Oh. Wrenlet."

She swung back upright onto the bed, her cheeks flushed with the effort of hanging upside down, her hair mussed and her eyes bright. "You like?"

He held up the figurine, admiring the way the light washed over the harsh cuts and soft curves. "I like. Very much." It was an owl in flight, carved out of reddish-brown pipestone, the wings so well formed that you could almost make out each feather, the head so finely crafted that you could swear that at any moment it would turn sideways to blink those eyes at you.

"There's a gallery in midtown, they were having a display of Native American carvings, and I thought you'd like one. I know you like owls."

"They're called fetishes, " he said, closing his fingers around the owl. "And yes, I like this very much."

He placed the figure down gently on the nightstand, and looked at his partner. "And now, yours."

She grinned, and reached over the side of the bed to pull out her gift. "I can't believe...how long has this been here? Did you...okay, I don't want to think about what that says about my housekeeping skills."

Her gift was considerably larger, and much lighter. Laying the rectangular box across her lap, Wren unwrapped the paper almost as neatly as he had-they were both like that, which pleased him. No anxious tearing into gifts, but instead a slow enjoyment of the process.

"Serg. Da-yum. You went on a splurge, partner."

She ran her fingers over the fabric almost as though she was afraid she might damage it.

"I suspect we both did. Go on, take a look."

She lifted the fabric from the box as gently as she might have handled one of her Retrievals. The hand-painted silk fluttered like b.u.t.terfly kisses as it rose and then settled in the air rising from the radiator. Shades of purple, red, blue, silver, green, and gold danced and merged, then separated out again.

"All the colors of current, " she said softly. "All my current." She had described it to him, over and over again; cyber-snakes and whiplash lighting; trust him to find a way to translate it into silk and shimmer. Into art.

"I think I need to make love to you until neither one of us can breathe, now."

He had no objection to that, at all.

In the last minutes before she did fall asleep, sweat slick on her skin and a pleasant if slightly uh-oh ache in her thighs, Wren listened to Sergei snoring lightly beside her, stared at the faint flickering of the streetlight reflected off snow and onto her ceiling, and counted down the days.

Seven days between Christmas and New Year's. Seven days until the Truce was supposed to take effect. Seven days before they could possibly get the Patrols formed up and running.

Seven days. Seven days for everything to totally fall apart.

Think positive, she told herself, finally closing her eyes and giving in to sleep. It's entirely possible everything will fall apart on January second, too.

Seven.

"Dude! Get over here!"

Sergei swam through the crowd, moving to where the arm was waving wildly at him. He was accustomed to gliding smoothly through crowds, to the point where a long-ago female companion had once accused him of being coated with Teflon, but tonight, he found himself stopped at every turn, to shake hands or clink gla.s.ses or receive an exuberant kiss on one or both cheeks, or in one memorable case, square on the lips.

"He likes you, " his partner said, her eyes sparkling.

"He's not my type, " he said, resisting the urge to scrub at his lips.

"Happy new year!" Their latest accoster had clearly started celebrating early, from the flush on her cheeks. Rosie hugged Wren, then lifted her gla.s.s and toasted Sergei, who raised his own gla.s.s in return. It wasn't actually New Year's yet, there being three hours yet to go, but the holiday cheer was in full bloom. He wasn't sure if everyone in the room was a Talent, except for him-surely some of them had to be dates, significant others, spouses, or random wander-ins-but the jukebox had been turned off and the neon lights over the bar were on half power, so clearly the owners were expecting a significant percentage to be s.h.i.t-faced before the clock stuck midnight.

Sergei had seen firsthand what could happen when Talents got drunk, in Italy over the summer, and that had been two half-trained teenagers. What a bunch of adult, trained Talents, all on edge from the past few weeks-h.e.l.l, months -and sheets to the wind, might do? He didn't want to be around for that, no.

But Wren had promised him that, alcohol and nerves or no, the Manhattan lonejack community had things under control. They might get soused, but there would still be Control. So no rowdy Talent-drunks here tonight. Hopefully.

And hopefully no last-minute hiccups in the Truce that was set to take effect on the stroke of twelve. Wren had spent the past week wandering from one coffee shop to the next, hitting every single greasy spoon in the city, trying to catch what was being said, and feeding it back to the double-Quad.

He looked around the room one more time, automatically noting the nearest emergency exits, just in case, and then let his gaze rest on his partner, animatedly talking to the other Talents at the bar. Wren looked lovely tonight, even more than she had on Christmas Eve. She so rarely had cause to dress up, it was a surprise every time, and he couldn't understand why someone else, someone Talented, hadn't stolen her years ago. Rhinestones glittered along the neckline of her scoop-neck sweater, brilliant against the black wool, and her skirt-short, flirty and gold lame-should have been eye-catchingly bright, but on her just looked fabulous. If she were a painting, he would have placed her by the door, so that people saw her just as they were leaving, and would stop and stay a while longer.

He didn't think she would take that quite as the compliment he meant it to be, so kept the thought to himself.

They were down in the East Village, in a noisy, garish local bar that had surprisingly decent beer on tap, mediocre booze at top-shelf prices, and bartenders who knew their s.h.i.t. Sergei approved. Not a place he would ever go to on his own-his taste ran more to good wine and quiet chatter-but tonight, for this one night, it was kind of...Fun.

Rosie grabbed one of the bartenders and gestured in some obscure sign language that all three of them needed refills. Beer for Wren, bourbon for him, some strange blue fizzing-yes, it was fizzing-drink for Rosie.

"h.e.l.l of a year, huh?" she said, after downing half the fizzy stuff in one long swallow.

"You could say that, " Wren allowed.

"Dude. I just did. "

Sergei laughed, helpless in the face of the Talent's drunken indignant response. Rosie wasn't much of a powerhouse in terms of current, but she was one of Wren's best sources of gossip, and entertaining as h.e.l.l, drunk or sober.

"So, heard you were seen coffee-cozying with some Tall Black and Dapper type last week."

Sergei was suddenly, totally Unamused with Rosie.

Wren, on the other hand, sprouted several new ears. "Really?" She drawled out the word, ending on a rising note of fascinated inquiry.

"That's the talk, " Rosie said, gulping down half her fizzing blue thing. "That, and the fact that a certain member of the Troika went missing couple-two months ago, and n.o.body's talking, and n.o.body's missing her all that much, either." Rosie blinked up at Wren, fascination in her gaze. "Did you really splatter her guts all over a diner?"

Stephanie, the Representative for Connecticut lonejacks. Stephanie, who had been selling them out to KimAnn's Council.

"It was a joint action. I was only acting in an advisory capacity." Although in this instance, by "advisory" she meant that it had been her hand guiding the joined current of everyone at the table, taking down the rogue lonejack-and wasn't that a redundancy-with perhaps a bit more force than was absolutely necessary. But they had all been in accord on the need to act.

"Well, it's gotten some folk all sorts of interested...."

"And upset?" The use of force had been sudden and unsanctioned, mainly because the lonejacks had never thought about the need to have a sanctioning process before.

Rosie considered the question. "Not so much, no. It needed to be done, clearly, if she was acting against us. I mean, that's the point, right? We're protecting ourselves? If someone inside's hurting us, we stop them, same as someone outside. And overkill? Beats not getting the job done the first time."

Sergei was of the same mind. But he knew that Wren didn't believe it.

Rosie finished off her drink, and patted Wren on the shoulder. "Anyway, I wouldn't worry about it. Chatter's positive, people like the thought of the patrols, although n.o.body thinks this so-called winter truce is going to last worth a d.a.m.n. And no, your name's not getting mentioned as such, just a vague sort of optimism having to do with the guy brokering all this, which, to folk as can remember, means you. So enjoy the night, and stop looking so frownie around the eyes. Give you wrinkles, and make you look old."

With those words of wisdom, she left her gla.s.s on the bartop, and slipped off into the crowd.

"So, " Wren said. Sergei braced himself. "Tall, Black, and dapper, huh?"

Andre Felhim.

"We met, yeah. To discuss breaking the contract." The agreement that bound Wren to the Silence, for a monthly retainer and the promise of their resources as she needed them, to be on-call as they needed her. Only the Silence was in disarray, internal politics and policies making that contract a danger rather than a safety. It had been a totally private meeting...unless they were talking about b.u.mping into Andre and Jorgenmunder at Rockefeller Center? d.a.m.n it, he'd barely run into the man, in a purely public place!

Fortunately, Wren had gotten distracted. "Money still landed in my account, first of the month. Do I have to give it back?"

Bless her for the mercenary she was. "No. If we can make it through the next few hours without them calling you, it's yours, no strings. They're already in breach of contract, by not giving us all the information we needed to accomplish the Nescanni situation; they're not going to push it." He hoped.

"Sergei...All this was fascinating. Really. But you were supposed to be getting rid of the d.a.m.n contract, not schmoozing with Andre over money. Especially money I'd feel dirty about having in my account."

She heard what she said, and then backtracked quickly. "Not that I was going to return it, or anything..."

"It takes steps, " Sergei was saying. "Andre-"

"Andre wants you by his side, fighting his battles. I can understand that. But-"

"Andre knows I've made my choice."

"Do you?"

"What?"

"Do you know you've made your choice? Because it's sounding a lot like you're still heeling to Andre's command. Or you could have just had a nice little conversation with him last week, and let me tell him to go take a hike, instead of hustling me away like the girlfriend as wasn't supposed to meet the wife."

It was a low blow. They both knew it was a low blow. Wren had the decency to look ashamed the moment the words left her mouth.

"I've told him no, Wren. But if we can slip out of the contract-and out of any dealing with him at all-without him losing face, you get to keep the money we were just discussing. So what's the problem?"

He didn't think she was annoyed simply because he was seeing the old man. Although, in some way, that would make sense that she found it threatening. The lonejack way was a mentoring system. To her eyes, Andre was his mentor. Mentor trumped everything except birth parents, and sometimes even them.

In any case except this, she would have been right. But heart trumped everything, for him. Everything.

"I told him no and I meant it. I'm not getting involved in his battles. Not while we have our own to fight. And not after, either."

"Sergei." The crowd in the bar was too loud to impart the full level of amus.e.m.e.nt and resignation she clearly felt, but he could see it on her face. "You can tell him no until the cows come home and go back out again. He won't believe it. And neither will you."

"I made my decision. Do you think-" He was starting to get annoyed.

She put her hand on the crook of his elbow, her fingers curling into the cloth of his jacket, pressing the flesh underneath. Her touch, as always, both soothed and tingled, his skin practically twitching in antic.i.p.ation of current hitting it.

"I think you're loving, and loyal, and smart, and all those other qualities that make you a great partner, on both the business and personal side. And I think-I know-that Andre had you first, and had you when you were still young and malleable, and you're never going to be able to cut through all the hooks he has in your psyche."

Sergei had no comeback for that.

"Partner." That was a low blow, there. It was more intimate than "lover, " or "sweetheart, " even when she said it in that exasperated tone. Maybe even especially then. "You're the one always telling me to finish the job. And you're not finished with Andre. Not yet."

All that got her was an exasperated sigh, more sensed than heard in the noise of the party. Wren had no idea why she was playing Devil's Advocate-she wanted out of this contract as badly-more!-as Sergei did. But something about it made her feel awkward, and it wasn't simply giving up the stipend they had been paying her. Although that was part of it, yeah. The Worth-Rosen job was going to keep her healthy for a while longer, and the current situation-pun unavoidable-had given the Council more important fish to fry than her ownself, but...

"The money has blood on it, " he said.

Wren couldn't argue with that. Lee's blood. Sergei's blood. The unknown Silence operative struck down in a suspicious accident before she could meet with them in Milan. The people who suffered from the Nescanni parchment here in Manhattan, because Silence infighting prevented them from getting access to all the data. Blood everywhere.

"Does that mean it won't pay the rent, the utilities, and the grocery bills? The repair work my slicks-" the light-absorbing bodysuit she wore on night jobs "-so desperately need?"

"No. I thought you'd maybe have trouble with it. I guess I was wrong."

"Pragmatism first. I won't do something I think is wrong. I haven't done anything for the money that either of us thinks is wrong. Right?"

Sergei said his former employers were Good Guys, all for righting wrongs and helping the helpless. And she had no beef with the kind of cases they took on, based on the little she'd seen. Bad stuff happened, and you needed to clean it up. Protect the innocent, or even just the oblivious. But...

"But I don't want to get tied up in their infighting, especially if Andre's going to want us to fight his battles, not the stuff we signed up for. There wasn't any rider on the contract for that.

"This is where I've chosen to be." He said it with such firmness she finally believed him. More, she believed that, if he said it that way to Andre, the old man would believe it, too, finally.

"I know. So you do what you can, " she said, sliding her hand down his arm, fingertips touching the back of his hand lightly, feeling the tendons tighten under contact, as quickly as they'd tensed at her first touch. "Do what you can and I'll take care of what's left." His gaze met hers, pale brown eyes meeting darker ones, and she smiled before taking her beer and mingling with the crowd.

Much as she'd love to blow off this party and take her partner back to the nearest apartment, there would be time enough to celebrate the New Year with him. For now, she was on another kind of job.