Free Fall. Laura Anne Gilman

intended to be a demonstration, bait to lure out the leaders, the shadow-figures behind the hatred. As such, it had failed.

      “No, we didn’t,” P.B. disagreed. “We fought the foot soldiers. And then we tried to draw out the leaders, yeah. Each time, we dealt them an injury. But it was half-measures and preventatives, aimed at figuring out what was wrong and how to fix it. All that did was buy us time.

      “Only it bought them time, too. It showed them what we are, where we are, and what we can—and can’t do. We showed them our entire hand.”

      “No. They only think we did.” Wren put her mug on the floor and stood up, pacing. She had learned over the years that it was easier to keep people focused on her if she was moving. It also helped her concentrate. “But the truth is that they don’t know half of what we are. Because we don’t know half of what we are.”

      “Okay, huh?” Bonnie cocked her head and scrunched her face up in exaggerated puzzlement. Sometimes Wren forgot how much younger the other woman was. Ten years wasn’t much between her and Sergei—they both had the mileage to make up for it. But Bonnie’s life had been a gentler one, and even now she worked in the scale of evidence and evaluation, not experience.

      “We’ve gotten civilized. We’re modern. We use current, and distance ourselves from the old ways, as much as the Silence is trying to.”

      “Old magic was inconsistent and less effective,” Bonnie said, parroting the accepted line.

      “True. And it had a higher cost,” Wren said. “A cost we don’t have to pay any more, thanks to Old Ben and his magic kite. We’ve come a long way. It’s been a good thing. But that doesn’t mean the past isn’t as much in us as the present.” She couldn’t believe she was saying that. She had always considered herself totally modern, knowing only as much about the old magic and the past ways as Neezer had insisted she learn.

      She still was. She still preferred to take her strength from current—it was cleaner, more secure, and less prone to backfiring on a user. Old magics had to be coaxed, bribed to hand, and if anyone could use them, nobody could guarantee results. And you paid for it, oh how you paid.

      But it was the same stuff. She knew that now, with what she had done, that dark current that Neezer had always warned her away from, still heavy like sludge in her core. Old magic. Emotionally charged. Unpredictable. She might have refused to see it, refused to use it in the past…but it slithered in there with the neon brights, just the same.

      You were what was inside you. You were what formed you. Love, hope…anger, hatred. Fear.

      The sludge, the tar, it wasn’t something that came from outside. It was in you, all the time. Waiting for something to trigger it. The fear. The anger. The hatred. The cold stillness she could feel inside, now.

      It wasn’t more powerful than external current. It wasn’t easier. It fed off of her in a way that current never did, and made her weak, in the end. But when it heated, it heated faster and hotter than any modern current ever could.

      That was the danger, the risk. Old magic consumed the user. Old magic ate you whole.

      But oh, the things it could let you do, in that heat. No control needed at all. That was the lure. That was the danger. D’anger. The anger. The wordplay almost made her laugh. Almost.

      “I never wanted to kill anyone,” she said quietly. “I never wanted to fight when I could run, and I never wanted to run when I could just stay out of sight. I’m not a troublemaker or a troubleshooter. But we need to survive. We need to do more than survive. And we can’t do that if there are people out there who aren’t even willing to give us the respect of being people, in their eyes. And we can’t change their minds, that’s been proven already.”

      P.B. shifted uncomfortably, causing the other three in the room to look at him. He glared back at them, then looked at the Retriever.

      “That’s the one thing you never wanted to hear, Valere. You know it now. There is such a thing as justifiable violence. There is such a thing as a just war—or at least a necessary one. Necessary death. Necessary killing. There comes a time when you can’t run any more, because you’ve been running so long you’ve run out of anywhere to run to.”

      Wren wanted to deny it. But the sludge stirred in her, and she felt the tarry sweetness on her tongue, and was stilled.

      “And you know this because…?” Bonnie challenged him.

      “Because I’ve been there, puppy. I’ve been there over and over again.”

      Wren had asked P.B. how old he was, once. He had slid around answering her directly, but the implication had been that he was older than the normal human lifespan. She wondered, suddenly, how many times older.

      “You?” Danny scoffed; the Fatae as a rule were less accepting of demon than Talent were, because the demon were a created species, their origins never spoken of except in speculative whispers. They didn’t have a clan or tribe or herd, they didn’t gather together—in fact, they seemed to dislike being in each others’ company—and not one of them looked like the other, except for the eyes all being that exact same shade of dark dried-blood-red. Danny didn’t mean to be insulting, Wren thought. It was just that the Fatae were used to thinking of demon as second-class members, without a history or tradition of their own.

      “Me, faun. When you were still wobbling around on your hooves, trying to figure out what your tail was for.”

      A faun’s tail was a sensitive subject, and Danny flushed under the baseball cap, but held his tongue.

      “I’m not trying to be rude here,” Bonnie said, “but I’m going to be anyway, so what the hell. You’ve been in the thick of things since all this started. You’re the one who got Wren involved, stirred up the Fatae, got the word out. Got everyone sharing information. And you’re a demon—you’ve never avoided violence in your entire life. So what the hell do you know from running?”

      Wren closed her eyes and counted to five. When she opened them again, nobody had moved, and P.B. was watching her.

      “I am demon,” he said, finally. “What that means…The Fatae never wanted to know. The mages have forgotten.” Mages—the old term, the one only the Council used any more, and then only formally. The word sounded strangely right on the demon’s tongue. “For generations, we were content that way. It was better to be forgotten. Safer. No one could use us, then.”

      You can ground in me. P.B.’s voice, offering her sanctuary, protection from overrush. It’s what I was created for.

      Never without your permission, she had replied.

      Her eyes were too dry to tear up in realization. Once, clearly, permission had not been sought. Or granted.

      “But I am older than all of you put together. And I didn’t get that way by throwing myself under every passing trauma-train. When I hear marching boots, the sound of rifles, the screams of a mob…I run. I ran. From old Amsterdam. South Africa. From Germany. Over and over again. I ran.” His eyes couldn’t really have darkened; it had to be a trick of the light. “And people died, who might have lived, if I had taken a stand.

      “But I lived. Lived, and came here. And if I had any brains left I would have run again.” He sounded so disgusted with himself, so totally P.B., that the spell he had been weaving with his words was broken, slightly, and Wren found that she could breathe again.