Part 23 (1/2)
”I just told you. Someone who is afraid of us, of what we are.”
Wren frowned. ”List's small, there.”
”The government knows about us, somewhere, in some office or another. Enough of us have been useful over the years, in various wars and wartime scenarios, there have to be records. How many people believe it is another question, though.”
”I shall hereby refrain from the obligatory Mulder and Scully joke, ” Sergei said with grave dignity.
”If you make reference, it counts as the obligatory joke, ” Bart said.
”It does not.”
”Yeah, it does.”
”All right, focus, gentlemen.” Was she the only person in the entire world who hadn't liked that show?
”No need to. I know who did it.”
”What?” She had missed something, somewhere. Not an uncommon occurrence when Sergei started seriously cranking on something.
”Not what. Why.” Sergei blinked, frowned, and pushed away from the table. ”I need to take a walk.”
There were few things scarier than Sergei's mind on that full-forward push, Wren decided. He had his head down and smoke practically pouring out of his ears, and you got the feeling that if you were to step in front of him you'd wake up a week later with tire tracks across your head, or something, and he wouldn't even have noticed. But was he thinking for them...or was he trying to decide who to betray now?
Stop it, Valere!
They had left Bart back at the restaurant, and were presently walking down Eighth Avenue toward the nearest subway station, dodging icy patches and piles of shoveled snow as they went. Not that she minded the fast pace, exactly; she was dressed for the weather, but the wind kept sliding under her turtleneck and sending s.h.i.+vers up and down her skin.
So do something about it, you idiot. She shook her head; G.o.d save her, she really was an idiot sometimes. Or maybe her brain was so focused on the big problems, it forgot how to solve the little ones.
Crooking a mental finger at a small strand of current in her core, she coaxed it up and out of the pile. Just a bit, enough to do the job and no more.
”Winter's chill Is boring to me: Warm my flesh.”
Sergei checked his pace half a step. ”Did you say something?
She looked at her partner, already feeling the spell take effect as tingles touched the epidermal nerve endings like reverse goose b.u.mps. ”Nope.”
It was petty, she knew. But he could just make do with his expensive jacket and cashmere scarf. She wasn't going to give him any more current until he admitted that he had a problem, d.a.m.n it. And not after then, either. G.o.d, she had to retrain herself, too. She wasn't going to be able to work current on him, either, no matter what...like not cooking with wine around an alcoholic...f.u.c.k. Okay, focus on the problem at hand. If you all die tomorrow, it won't matter worth a d.a.m.n. If you both survive, then you can have a major-a.s.s Intervention and force him to deal with this.
And what if he won't? she asked herself. What will you do then?
She didn't know. She'd already tried being the strong one, the one in control, and that didn't work; she wasn't going to compound the failure by being stupid and pretending it would work if she just tried a little harder, put in a little more effort. She'd tried walking away, and that was just as abject a failure; she'd been bouncing her brain off his for too many years now to go cold turkey, especially in the middle of this mess.
”Talk to me, ” she said instead. ”You said you knew who...why, ” she corrected herself.”
”It's my fault. I was afraid of it, and now I'm...not entirely certain, but pretty d.a.m.n near sure certain.”
”Your fault? How...” She stopped, stared at the point between his shoulder blades as he kept walking. No. No, oh no...
She gave him the opening she didn't want answered. ”The Silence. You think it was the Silence-but why? You said you knew why.”
”I have to talk to Andre again.”
He stopped at the stairs leading down to the 1/9 train, and looked down at Wren. For the first time in months, she was reminded how much taller he was than she; so many of their conversations recently had been held horizontally.
”If you don't want to come...”
”Am I going to want to kick him when he answers your questions?”
That got a faint smile out of him. ”At the very least.”
”Lead on, Macduff.”
They weren't back on. They weren't even getting onto getting back on. But they were on the same train heading for the same goal-literally-and Wren would work with that, for now.
Especially if she got to kick Andre Felhim in the a.s.s. Hard.
The subway wasn't crowded, and they each got a seat. Wren was inwardly relieved and disappointed that the car was just crowded enough that those seats weren't together. She wasn't sure being pushed up against him was where she was ready to be, just yet. Although it still beat being pushed up against the rather large woman next to her...while winter subway riding was better in some ways than the summer-the smells were better, for one-the fact was that the same number of people wearing winter coats made s.p.a.ce tighter than it should be. At least they were done with both the preholiday buying frenzy and the post-New Year's sales buying frenzy; overloaded shopping bags on ma.s.s transit should be considered deadly weapons. Especially when carried by little old ladies with att.i.tudes.
Across the car from her, Sergei looked like he was sleeping; eyes closed, posture slightly slumped but still alert enough to warn off potential muggers. She took the opportunity to study him, comparing the visual to the image she still carried in her head from the first time ever they met: The car slammed to a halt, the crunch of metal and plastic echoing across the park. Instinctive, what she had done: using current to cus.h.i.+on the impact, kept the impact from being far worse, suppressing any sparks that might have ignited the fuel tank. Genevieve slowed to let Joe go by first-he was a cop, he'd know what to do. He tossed her his phone, yelled for her to call the accident in. She dialed the number, speaking to the dispatcher, even as her eyes scanned the scene in front of her. And then the driver got out, staggering even under the helping hands, and looked up and stared at her, through all the people and chaos.... And she knew he knew who she was. What she was. What she had done.
And he very clearly, very carefully, mouthed ”thank you” to her.
Sergei Didier then had been wearing a suit that cost more than her mother paid in rent on their place. His hair had been darker, more stylishly cut, and the lines on his face had been, ironically enough, deeper-cut than they were now. He had looked like what he was: a burned-out businessman facing a crisis.
Now...he dressed more casually, even on his most client-heavy days, even in his choice of suits and ties. His hair was touched with the first hints of silver, and the lines around his eyes and lips creased upward in laugh lines as much as with tension.
You've been good for him. Even with all the bad, the worries, the stupid things you do to each other, the stupid things he does to himself, he's better now than he was before.
Before, when the Silence had him. When the man they were going to see now was his boss.
He had warned her, back when the Silence came in to save the day, and her bank account, that there was a price to pay for dealing with them. She had listened...but she hadn't remembered.
The Silence held secrets, and used their people to bear the weight. They played close to the vest with all their cards, and they'd hide the ones in the river, if they could. What secrets was Sergei still carrying? Was it possible to escape? And what did they have to do with the Cosa 's enemies today?
Think. What do you know about the Silence, Valere?
They were a watchdog organization, according to her partner. Their mission statement was to protect the innocent against larger, darker forces.
Their funding came from a bunch of Dead White Guys with an overdeveloped guilt complex, back in a previous century.
They were set up like a corporation in a lot of ways; one branch not always knowing what another was doing, and a lot of infighting and turf battles, based on what was happening with Andre, and Sergei's mention of this guy named Duncan.
And that was about it, sum and total of her knowledge. She hadn't bothered to look, even when she signed on with them, trusting Sergei to deal with all of that. Even when Silence operatives burned them on the Nescanni job, she'd left it to Sergei to deal with the particulars, limiting her involvement to snarking at Andre.
You can't do that anymore she thought to herself as the train pulled into their stop. You've been letting him take too much, stuff you should be handling-like current, the guilty voice in her head said, like she needed reminding-and that's not good for either of you. Especially 'cause he's never going to say no...and you can't say no to him, either.
One was personal, and one was business, and once they'd been separate things. Or, at least, they'd managed a halfway decent firewall between the two. Now...
Wren needed to relearn that wall. For both their sakes.