a sideways glance at Sergei, and was not reassured by what she saw. His shoulders were broad to begin with, but now the way his head had lifted, and he was looking at Andre, she swore he’d gained another couple of inches across, all of it annoyed.
Andre didn’t seem to notice the storm brewing. “We had hoped that, while Ms. Valere was otherwise occupied with this situation, you would be available to work on another project back—”
“Two tickets.” The faint rose flush over his cheekbones was subsiding, but the jaw and neck muscles were still corded. “Two, or none.”
There was a brief testosterone-fueled staring match that broke when Andre looked away. Wren suddenly remembered to breathe again. Score one for the home team. But the thought was a little shaky.
“Wren doesn’t speak Italian,” Sergei said. It was almost as though, Wren thought, he were apologizing for winning.
Maybe he was. She still so didn’t get their relationship, her partner and Andre. Yes, she knew they’d been coworkers, back in Sergei’s We Don’t Discuss It days with the Silence. And that Andre had been the one to train him. But other than that, a big blank nothingness of information. A mistake, letting that go on. She counted on her partner to get her the necessary details so she could do her job, damn it. And if the two of them were going to have Dramatic and Meaningful pauses in the conversation, she needed to know why.
She hated being out of the loop in her own life. And she already hated this job.
“I do hope you’re not going to insist on business class,” Andre said, finally, dryly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sergei said in return. She was relieved to see that he’d dropped the menacing body language, not that he wasn’t a tall bastard to begin with, at least by her standards. Kitchen wasn’t large enough for all the egos in here.
“Fine, fine, details settled. One last really important question Sergei seems to have forgotten to ask.” When the two men looked at her she put on her very best, guaranteed-annoying chipper and chirpy inquisitive face, this time smiling without showing teeth. “How much—in addition to the stipend—are we getting paid for this?”
Chapter Three
“Andre Felhim. Code 28-J8-199-6.”
“Good afternoon, sir.” A chime followed the almost-human-sounding voice, and the door of the restricted elevator opened with a soft hum, giving him access to the inner building where the Silence had its unmarked, unremarked world headquarters, on a side street in a side corner of Manhattan.
Andre put his keycard back into his pocket, touched the display pad on the wall, and rode in silence up to the seventh floor. It was quiet, now; most of the activity on seven occurred in the morning, when new reports were compiled and distributed. Friday afternoon was a time to catch up, to cover all your bases and plot strategy for the next week. Or, for managers like himself, for the weekend. The Silence slept, but not for long. There was a review meeting scheduled for Saturday morning, and he still had to look over the agenda.
“Ho, the glamorous life,” he said wryly, walking down the hall toward his office, a plain square of space carved out of the floor plan by three walls and a window. He still wasn’t quite sure how he rated one of those rare windows, but the first lesson you learned was take what you can get and never let anyone think it might have been a mistake.
While he’d been out of the office this morning, meeting with an extremely particular and paranoid new client, someone had dumped a dozen or so files into his in-box, threatening to topple the stack that was already there. A series of salmon-pink “while you were away” slips were taped to the back of his chair, fluttering slightly under the flow of air from the vent overhead. Andre pulled them off the fabric, flicking through them while he checked to see if his message light was on.
It was.
“It never stops,” he muttered, more amused than annoyed. Far worse if it were to stop. Information was the lifeblood of the Silence. And the more information you had, the more essential you were. If anyone thought, however rightly or wrongly, that you didn’t have access to new information…
The only thing equal in sin was not to bring money into the coffers, to pay for the less lucrative situations they had been founded to deal with. Endowments, even impressive ones, only went so far when you had the entire world to save.
Well. For the moment, anyway, he didn’t have to worry about either of those sins. Bringing The Wren—and Sergei—onto the Silence’s roster had been a coup he could rest on for a while longer yet, information-wise. Especially with this new client, who thought that the island estate she had just inherited might be infested with something unworldly. It was probably nuclear-irradiated cockroaches, considering where she lived, but the Silence would earn a pretty penny checking it out and cleaning it up, whatever the cause.
He almost hoped it was glow-in-the-dark cockroaches. They were still collecting royalties on the movie that got filmed after the last one of those Man-meets-Nature, Screws-it-up situations.
But that sort of project was a sideline. The supernatural screwing with the natural was their raison d’être; specifically, the Italian situation was where his focus needed to be, right now. Matthias would be annoyed not to have Sergei’s help on his current project, but Andre was not entirely unhappy that his former protégé had dug in his heels about letting the girl work alone.
He’d refrained from giving them anything more than the official, filed details of the situation, as per policy, but this felt…wrong. Bad, in his gut. And not only because they had so little information on the missing manuscript itself. Something about this had put his hackles up, and only the knowledge that these two really were the very best he could put on it made him sign off on the assignment.
That, and the fact that “I have a bad feeling about this” was not an acceptable reason within these hallways.
“You’re back.”
“You’re a master of the obvious.” He regretted his tone the moment he saw his assistant’s expression. “I’m sorry. It’s been a hellish twenty-four hours, and I’m a proper bastard for taking it out on you.”
“Make it two boxes of truffles at Christmas this year and you’re forgiven. As always.” Bren was office manager and dogsbody to three managers, Andre included, and they all ran her ragged. Chocolate once or twice a year seemed to him the least he could do.
“Anyway, you can see that disaster has once again struck while you were off-premises.”
She twiddled two red-nailed fingers in the direction of his desk, and Andre sighed dramatically. “Indeed. Any actual corpses?”
“None you have to dispose of. Coffee?”
He considered the offer briefly, then shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I’m irritable enough already without adding that swill to the mix this late in the day.”
“True, too true. Just yell if you change your mind.”
Andre paused a moment to enjoy the view of Bren’s backside as she strode down the hallway to her desk. He had an acknowledged weakness for tall, leggy blondes. Pity she’d prefer him to be Andrea.
With a chuckle at his own foolishness—the first even faint laugh he’d had since being handed the Italian project three days ago—he moved to the door and closed it against the external office distractions. And in that time his brief good humor fell away as though it had never existed.
Magic. This entire situation smelled of magic. Stank of it, actually.
Andre had been among the first, years ago, to endorse the use of Talents within the Silence. He knew their value, in an organization that dealt with the results of magic in more than three-quarters of their situations. But magic itself—the basic, unpredictable power—still made him uneasy, despite or maybe because of his continued exposure to it. For all their talk of current and channeling, it wasn’t the same as building a generator, and then flipping