Curse the Dark. Laura Anne Gilman

turn of events with his wife, once he got rid of his surprise guest.

      “No, the fact that her fataephobic partner is with her is…actually reassuring. In that if I’m not there to look out for her he will, as much as his wussy human reflexes allow him to. If the Council comes gunning for her, ’cause you know they will, they’ve got their people everywhere. But, see, I could do it better. But did they ask me? No! All I get is ‘P.B., gotta go, watch the apartment, willya?’ Like I was some kind of plant-watering petsitter.”

      “Oh for…” Suddenly Lee had had it with the demon’s self-pity party. The bastard was lonely—which explained why he’d made this unexpected drop-in to the human’s studio only a day after the two had left—and he just had to get the hell over it. “That’s not what they asked you to do at all.”

      P.B. threw his compact body onto the only other chair in the room, a brown leather recliner that must have seen better decades, and was in the studio as a stopping point on its way to the dump. A disconsolate snarl rose from his throat, and Lee’s skin prickled. Then the noise stopped, as though P.B. had suddenly realized it was coming from him, and the demon sighed instead, a remarkably human sound. “Yeah, I know. But it felt like that. They get to go off and do exciting things, and I’m stuck behind. Ignoring the whole ‘how the hell could you get on a plane’ thing ’cause yeah, know that, live that. It sucks living in a human world, you know that?”

      Demons, unlike any of the other known fatae races, were created—according to one story, somewhere back in the mists of magic, a mad Talent had manipulated several races into creating what he had thought would be an interesting subspecies of servant. Over the generations since then the bloodline had gone in several different directions as the parent genes reasserted themselves, but they were all immediately recognizable by their blood-red eyes. The Cosa referred to them all collectively as “demon,” with all the implicit emotional and psycho logical baggage attached.

      “I know.” Being a Talent was no picnic either, even if he only used current to weld his sculptures. The fact that he had married outside of the Cosa was a constant source of amazement to all concerned; it was rare to find a Null that you could tell about magic, much less admit that you used it on a regular basis.

      Maybe that was why Wren and Sergei felt, once he got over the shock, like such an obvious idea. They already knew each other’s secrets, after all. After Wren, even the most fascinating socialite on the Manhattan art scene was probably a bit…tame.

      “Look, P.B., the truth is I know for a fact that Wren asked you to do something really important, because she asked me to be your backup. So take that for what it’s worth—you’re point person, and I’m office support. How’s that supposed to make me feel?”

      P.B. made a rude, wet noise through his nose. “Relieved?”

      Lee laughed at that. Point, made and well taken. His reputation for noninvolvement in Cosa affairs was widely known. He heard more gossip that way. And nobody expected him to actually act on any of it. Which meant he could—when he chose to.

      “So, what have you heard?” P.B. leaned forward, his chin resting on the pads of his hands—claws now semi-sheathed—and looking unnervingly like a petite, white-fur-covered version of Rodin’s “The Thinker.”

      Lee leaned back in his own chair, legs the length of P.B.’s entire body stretched out in front of him. “The gossip mills have been churning,” he admitted. “It’s mostly low-level stuff, no more boneheaded moves like they did last spring, locking down anyone who bucked them, Mage or not. But I don’t think they’ve backed off. That’s not Council style, much as those bastards have any.

      “Stuff that might affect us directly? I’ve already told Wren most of it, the stuff the Council’s spreading about her. But that’s personal, not…” Lee picked up a scrap of iron and smoothed it with his hands, almost absently softening the edges until the metal flowed into gentle undulations. “I’ve heard some talk, though. Not even rumors, but hints and whispers of rumors. That the Council’s gearing up for another push against unaffiliates—” lonejacks, he meant. “A push that’s going to be ugly.”

      “It ain’t never been anything but,” P.B. said strongly. “Not when it comes to the Council. Just you guys, or all the fatae who ain’t them? And any idea if Wren’s going to be the primary target again, like this spring, or…?”

      “Not a clue. I think, though, they’re going to go for less…alerted targets.” He grimaced. “Christ, listen to me. I sound like a bad made-for-TV war movie.”

      For the first time, Lee was able to discern a distinct and recognizable emotion on the demon’s flat, furred face. Unhappiness. “It is a war,” he said sadly, his claws flexing again. “Or if not yet, soon. Really, really soon. And we’re gonna be right in the middle of it.”

      Chapter Six

      Despite the optimistic words of the forecasters that morning, the heat was, if anything, worse when Andre finally left the unmarked, unremarkable building that housed the Silence at seven o’clock on Saturday evening. There was still a stack of work on his desk, but all the reachable fires had been put out, the recalcitrant cats herded into a corner, and only one last item of business to deal with before he could collapse with a brandy and the book he had been trying to finish now for almost a month.

      The asphalt was soft underfoot, and he winced as he stepped onto it, mentally tabulating the cost to get the marks off his shoes. God how he hated summers in the city.

      A plane roared overhead, and he looked up instinctively. His two reluctant operatives must be on the job in Italy by now, hopefully with the bit firmly between their teeth. Giving them a tip of his nonexistent hat, he continued across the street and on to his meeting.

      His assistant was waiting in a far booth, out of the busy flow of traffic.