you…” P.B. didn’t even finish that thought, much less the sentence.
“No,” she said anyway, and, unlocking the four different locks on the metal security door, left the apartment, and the question behind her.
Left alone in the apartment, the demon known as P.B. shook his head. A lifetime spent avoiding conflicts, avoiding ugly complications and useless entanglements, and he finally found his place at the side of a woman who was avoiding the best thing that ever came down the proverbial pike for her. That was karma for you.
Not that he blamed her, entirely. Sergei Didier had been a hero at Burning Bridge, but P.B. was the only one who knew it. On Didier’s orders, no less. The human had his reasons, but it didn’t make the estrangement between Wren and Didier any easier to deal with.
“She will be able to function better without me.”
Sergei loved Wren, and that made him blind, in a lot of ways. In the aftermath of the disaster at the Brooklyn Bridge, the Cosa didn’t have many leaders left. They were trying to hold together, hanging together, but P.B. had seen it all before, and it didn’t look good. They needed Valere, as much as she didn’t want to be needed. But he had tried to convince her of that, of her importance in the scheme of things, and failed. The only person who could possibly make her see reason was her partner. Ex-partner. In both the business and the personal use of the word.
Something had to be done about that, too. For the Cosa, and for P.B.’s own sake. Not only was Wren’s mood far sweeter when she was getting some horizontal action on a regular basis, but Didier was the only one besides Bonnie in this building who could actually cook.
Walking down the street toward the bus stop, Wren had already taken the demon’s parting words and implications and put them away where she didn’t have to look at them. She and Sergei…it was better this way. Ignoring all the stuff between them personally, which took a major amount of ignoring, the truth was that he had prevaricated to them—to her—about the Silence. He had held on to information they needed, information they deserved to have, to protect themselves, in the name of a loyalty he swore no longer existed.
Yeah, he had come clean in the end, or at least she thought he had, but the level of distrust in the Cosa toward him was pretty deep, and she…she couldn’t afford that. Couldn’t afford to be touched by it. Not if she wanted to survive this.
The Cosa had dragged her in not once but twice. Made her responsible, when that was the very last thing she wanted. People had died. Friends had died. And her city was being torn apart, even as she walked to work, all because the Silence hated anything not—to their eyes—purely human, and the Cosa didn’t trust anyone not Cosa.
Sergei claimed that he had been done with the Silence, had been done with them for years. But at the Battle of Burning Bridge last January, he had been there. Been on the scene, when nobody—not her, certainly not P.B.—had told him anything was going down.
It looked bad, no matter how fast he talked. It looked bad then, and it still looked bad now.
Two cops were standing on the corner of Eighth Avenue. They acted casual—one eye on the early morning traffic, one on the pedestrians passing by—but Wren made a living reacting off unspoken cues, and they were practically screaming unease, to her.
The shorter cop’s gaze touched on her, moved on. She hadn’t invoked her usual no-see-me cantrip yet, because it was tough enough to get a bus to stop without intentionally making it difficult to see you standing there, but she was naturally forgettable. Unless she suddenly developed wings or green skin or shot at them….
The NYPD was still a little twitchy in the aftermath of Burning Bridge, too. For decades, there had been Fatae in the ranks, until scrutiny got tightened, and most of the older cops had pretty decent memories of a partner who was just a little…weird. But a reminder of that winter morning would not go over well right now. Cops had gotten hurt, too.
For that reason alone, Wren wished that P.B. had made like so many of his cousins and beat feet out of town. Old loyalties and vague memories weren’t much to count on when there were so many bloody incidents happening. Because it was quiet right now didn’t mean it would be quiet five minutes from now. The tension she could feel constantly in her skin reminded her of that, every moment she was awake and most of her sleeping time as well.
The bus came and Wren got on, sliding between the ranks of her fellow commuters to a place where she could rest against the back of a seat, and not worry about being shoved as people got on or off at each stop.
Other people carried briefcases, computer bags. She had a yellow canvas shoulder bag that had seen better years, and a set of lockpick tools tucked into a leather case strapped against her stomach. Thighs could be ogled, backs-of-back touched, but generally not even the most intrepid of security guards touched a woman’s stomach. Not unless you were already in deeper kimchee than a lockpick would warrant.
There was a quiet urge inside her, to reach down and touch her core, just for reassurance. Connecting to her core—the pit of current that lived inside her, and made her a Talent—would settle her nerves, her uncertainties. Not because it was reassuring—it wasn’t—but because the level of confidence and control it took to manage it overrode everything else. You went down into the core, you were calm and controlled, or you lost ownership. And once that happened…It was instinctive, by the time a Talent was allowed out on her own. But she couldn’t let herself reach for it.
Not unless she wanted to fry every single laptop, PDA, watch, cell phone, and music-playing device on this bus. Her control was, well, in control. But her emotions were totally not.
Damn you, Didier. Damn you for making me shove you away. I need you, you stupid, selfish, arrogant bastard! She had counted on him, and he had failed her.
Her stop came up and she slipped off the bus, weaving her way through the crowds of Times Square. Even at this hour, there were tourists. At every hour, there were tourists. Wren wouldn’t mind them quite so much if they’d just learn how to walk. You didn’t stop in the middle of a sidewalk to have a conversation with ten of your bestest buddies. You didn’t wave your camera around like it was a baton. And you absolutely didn’t stand there with your wallet open, counting out your bills after you bought breakfast from a bagel cart.
Wren pocketed the handful of bills almost absently, and decided that the camera wasn’t pretty enough for the taking. Anyway, what would she do with it? Her only experience with cameras was ducking whenever her mother’s then-boyfriend tried to take a photo of her, as a child.
Her quarry was up ahead: the Taylor Theater. The Taylor was one of the smaller venues, holding on to its dignity with a restored Art Deco facade. Broadway had never been demure, but she always had class, even draped in neon and splattered with six-story-high underwear ads, and the Taylor was every inch a classy dame.
Wren loved living in Manhattan, and she especially loved wandering through Times Square. It was an unspoken law, known to every New York Talent: You don’t recharge on Broadway. The neon, the floodlights, the endless uncountable miles of wiring and secondary power sources, they all had an invisible “paws off” sign. Like hospitals and nuclear power plants, you just didn’t.
That didn’t mean you couldn’t feel a buzz, walking under the throbbing, pulsing, sweating lights. Wren let it pass through her, not trying to catch any of the current shimmering in the air. It was spring, there had been a thunderstorm over the weekend, and her core was sated and ready to go.
The job had come in two days ago, via a friend of a friend of a former client. A smash-and-grab, without much smash. Not much of a grab, either—an old prop that had some sort of sentimental value to the client, and was being held by another actor as his own good luck charm.
Actors. Jesus wept. They made the Cosa seem well-adjusted.
Once, Wren would have grumbled about a job that was, in effect, sleepwalking; she used to thrive on the rev of adrenaline that came from outsmarting a security system, outwitting guards, and getting away with something someone else didn’t want you to have.