Part 22 (1/2)

”They were strangled and left on our steps with a warning about a 'Burning' to come.”

Sergei waited for further details. ”And this means...?”

”The Burning, my boy, is a term that has some resonance among your Cosa . It refers to the persecution of witches and those who use magic.”

”A persecution the Silence has been known to take a hand in, ” Sergei said calmly. Not often, and never without perceived cause, but hands washed in blood, nonetheless. Another secret he'd kept from Wren. ”So it may be that someone in the Cosa has a specific grudge. Why come to me, accuse me?”

”They laid these bodies on our doorstep, Sergei Ka.s.sianovich. I am not being entirely metaphoric here. They were discovered this morning by the cleaning crew, the warning burned into their skin.”

Oh. The Silence's building was one of the best-kept secrets, maintained since the plot of land was first purchased in the 1950s. A great deal of money had been spent to keep it more off-the-radar than even Wren could manage.

Two murders, a Cosa -specific reference, plus an implied we-know-where-you-are threat against the larger organization. Yes, he could understand why gazes might turn in his direction-or Wren's, although anyone who knew her at all would know how unlikely violence was from her.

Him, though? The Silence had trained him, praised him for violence in the greater cause.

”It wasn't me, Andre.”

It was all he could do or say; either his former boss believed him, or he didn't. If he did, it might or might not carry through to the rest of the Silence, who would never forgive him for taking up with a lonejack, anyway. If Andre didn't believe him...Well, that would be too bad for the old man, wouldn't it?

”And Miss Valere?”

There was a chime outside, and Sergei hit the remote that opened the door. Lowell brought the tea in, a full silver tray service with cream, sugar and narrow Italian b.u.t.ter cookies the bakery down the street specialized in. Lowell had many skills, and the ability to smell money on a potential customer was one of his best, second only to his ability to make those potential customers feel deeply valued, if not outright cherished.

”Thank you, son, ” Andre said, accepting a steaming cup from the tray. Sergei accepted a refill from the teapot, then nodded at Lowell to indicate that he should leave the tray on the desk.

The conversation did not resume until after the door had closed behind his a.s.sistant.

”Wren has no love for the Silence.” In fact, Wren had great hate for the Silence, on several levels, and almost all of them totally justified. ”But can you see her killing someone, marking their bodies with a message, and then dumping them on your stairs? She'd be far more likely to get into your bedroom at night and leave a rude message written with a Sharpie on your still-breathing body.”

That almost got a flicker of a smile from Andre. Wren didn't like him, but he liked her.

”It doesn't matter if you did or did not do it. You are the most likely-in fact, the only reasonable suspect, in the eyes of those who will take action.”

”You've lost that much power, that you can't do anything? Or...” Sergei looked at his former boss with knowing eyes. ”Youwon't do anything. Because if Duncan acts against me, and it's proven-ifI prove that it was someone else, then Duncan will have been shown as fallible, not only in not being able to protect the Silence, but also incapable of striking back against those who would harm the organization. His information will have been shown, publicly and irrevocably, to be flawed.”

Information was the lifeblood of the Silence; it was what they traded in; who did what to whom, and the means to set it right. Or, Sergei amended to himself, with a tired, low-level bitterness, to set according to what they deemed right.

”You're a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Andre Felhim.”

”I do what I need to.” He put his teacup down on the small table that was placed next to the sofa for just that purpose, and leaned forward, engaging Sergei's attention completely. ”I had to know if you were involved in this, in any way. And I wanted to warn you. If that makes me a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, then so be it.”

He stood, adjusting his sweater with a tug, and reclaiming his overcoat from the coat tree.

”Do what you need to do, Sergei Ka.s.sianovich.” For the first time Sergei could remember, the patronymic did not set his teeth on edge. ”Do as I trained you to do.”

Twenty.

Sergei had waited all of ten minutes after Andre left before doing anything. Ten minutes spent sitting, quietly, his hands folded in front of him.

Was Andre playing him?

Yes.

Was Andre lying to him?

No. Probably not. Most likely not.

Had Andre told him everything?

a.s.suredly not.

Did that change what he needed to do?

No.

A full ten minutes, until his tea had turned cold and bitter, and he shut off his workstation, turned off the lamp, and took his own coat off the rack and left the gallery.

”I won't be in tomorrow, ” he told Lowell, scooping up a mint out of the bowl on the counter before pulling on his gloves and tucking his scarf more firmly under his chin.

”We're supposed to get a delivery tomorrow-”

”You can handle it, ” he said, and was gratified, in a distant way, to see Lowell's already perfect posture straighten and broaden even more.

Lowell was good. He had to tell the kid that, more often. It was just tough to remember, most days.

The streets were cleared, for the moment. A few cars were parked on the side of the road, coated with ice on the windows, a dusting of snow on the hoods and roofs. He hoped to h.e.l.l the owners had quality lock deicers, otherwise they weren't going to be getting into the cars any time soon.

He stood in the cold air and debated with himself. Go home, and wait for Wren to get in touch with him? Go to her place, and hope that she was there, that she would let him in? Stop in at Truce Central, even though there was no more truce, and see if anyone would give him the time of day? He didn't know, without her, where he stood with the supernatural community. He was the reason the Silence knew about them-did they know that? They must, by now. On the other hand, he was also the reason many of them were alive. And he was still Wren's partner. He thought. He hoped.

”You Didier? Of course you're Didier, who else would you be?”

He turned in the direction of the voice, and blinked at the sight of the creature standing in front of him.

”You're...”

”Yeah, I know, I hear it all the time. Notoriety's a b.i.t.c.h.” To the pa.s.serby, he was merely a particularly grotesque old man, wizened and bent, with a face liked a dried apple and drool threatening to appear at the corner of its pale-skinned lips. Only the creature's dark red eyes gave its species away: demon. Wren had told him that demon all looked different, except the eyes; she hadn't said that one of them looked like Koshschey. Koshschey the Invulnerable. Koshschey the d.a.m.ned. Koshschey the Murderer.

”You are Didier, right?”

Ky3eH ApaKoHa. I mean, right, yes, I am.” The sight had shocked him back into Russian, as though he were a six-year-old terrified by his father's stories, all over again.

”Good, because if I had the wrong street again I was going to hand in my courier's badge and go hibernate for another decade or seven. I hate this city.”

Of course it spoke Russian. Sergei had trouble keeping up, mentally translating in his head and stumbling over a few words. ”You have a message for me?”

”Yeah. You're supposed to meet Herself at Dante's. Half an hour. Was more time but these d.a.m.n streets twist and turn on one another, I swear to G.o.d Kana'ti couldn't find its way through this without a compa.s.s.”