“Hardly.” Without false modesty, Wren knew her worth, and so did Sergei, to the penny. These guys were good, but she was better. Which was why she didn’t appear on other people’s little lists. Even Sergei, with all his surprisingly good contacts and connections, hadn’t known about her way back when until sheer coincidence—and a nasty accident caused by someone trying to kill him—brought them into contact.
Wren’s mentor, a man named John Ebenezer, had taught her from the very beginning to keep a low personal profile for a great many reasons, all of them having to do with staying alive and under her own governance. There were three kinds of current-mages in the world: Council-mandated, lonejackers and dead. Just because a Talent had no interest in being under the Council’s thumb didn’t mean they might not want her there, now or someday later. Better not to take the chance. That was the lonejacker’s first law: steer clear of the Mage Council.
Their salads arrived at that moment, and they paused long enough to accept their plates, and wave away Callie’s offer of freshly ground pepper.
“I’ve never understood that.”
“What?” He looked at her, his forehead scrunching together in puzzlement.
“The fresh pepper thing. Who puts pepper on their salad?”
Sergei shrugged. “Someone must, otherwise they wouldn’t offer it.”
“I think they do it just to see who’s stupid enough—or sheep enough—to say yes.”
“You have a suspicious mind.”
Wren grinned at him. “You do say the sweetest things.”
“Eat your salad,” he told her, lifting his own fork with a decided appetite. Her list lay just to the side of his plate, so he could skim it without distracting himself from his food, or running the risk of getting salad dressing on the paper. Wren watched him eat and read for a moment, then picked up her own fork and dug into the pile of greens. She was going to wait until the dishes were cleared away to go through the neatly-clipped-together, ordered, indexed and color-coded material properly.
“Hey, this name was on my list,” he said suddenly.
“What?” That got her attention fast.
“This name.” He stabbed one well-manicured finger at the paper as though it were somehow at fault. “It was on my list.”
Wren took the paper from him. “Which one?”
“Third from the bottom. George Margolin.”
Wren scanned the list, coming to the name he indicated. “Huh. Talent, yeah, but not buckets of it. Not affiliated, not really a lonejack—he’s passing.” In other words, he wasn’t using current in any way, shape, or form that was obvious to the observer, and probably didn’t use it at all. At least, not consciously. But you never knew for certain. And some folk were just naturally sneaky about it.
“Great. Move that guy up to the top of the suspects list. Anyone in a suit that P.B. hears about is going to be dirty, one way or another.”
“P.B.?” Sergei didn’t roll his eyes—that would have been beneath him—but his voice indicated his level of unimpressedness.
“Hey, don’t dis my sources,” she said, pointing her fork at him. “That furry little bastard always comes through, which is more than I can say for some of your people. I seem to recall a little screw-up with IDs that almost got me shot by the cops in Tucson.”
“All right, all right. Point taken.”
She had to give Sergei that. He was a xenophobic bastard when it came to things like demons and fatae, but he didn’t cut humans any slack when they screwed up, either. Especially when it was their own lives on the line.
She flattered herself that he might have been just as annoyed at that snitch if he hadn’t ended up in that Tucson jail along with her.
“So how come this guy’s on your list?”
“You have the file, you look.”
“Why? You’ve memorized the important stuff already.” Wren never understood why people wasted brain-space on anything they didn’t need right at hand. That was the magic of writing stuff down, so you didn’t have to cram it all in your head. But Sergei was incapable of letting go of anything to do with a job, at least while the file was hot. For all she knew, he did an info dump at the end of every case, mentally shredding all that info in order to make room for the new stuff.
She had a mental image of Sergei running his brain through a shredder, and had to stifle a snort of laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” She bit the inside of her lips, made a “go on” gesture. “Tell me about Margolin.”
He frowned at her, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion, but complied. “Mid-forties. Computer genius of sorts, chief technical officer for Frants Incorporated. Odd, for a Talent.”
“But not unheard of, especially if he’s passing. That low-level a Talent, probably enhances the tech stuff rather than shorting it out. Lucky bastard.” Wren didn’t carry high-tech toys because it was an exercise in frustration, not because she didn’t like them.
“According to this, he’s smart, savvy, and very very disgruntled. RUMINIT says he felt that he was passed over for promotion because of his religious beliefs.”
“What, he’s a Scientologist?”
It was Sergei’s turn to laugh. “No, agnostic. Rather militantly so. As in ‘I don’t know, and you don’t either.’”
Wren tried to raise only one eyebrow and failed, pretty sure that the resulting expression made her look like an inquisitive owl. “I can see where that could get up someone’s nose, yeah. But if he’s passing…Yeah.” She checked her notes. “Nope, no real training, far as anyone knows. No mentor ever claimed him.” That was how Talents worked, mostly; one-on-one apprenticeships. Went all the way back to when it wasn’t safe to work together—or tell anyone what you were, so you tied the knowledge up in secrecy and oaths. “He doesn’t have the firepower to do it himself, and I can’t see him having enough information without a mentor to track down and hire a mage to do something like this, either.” She narrowed her eyes as a sudden thought hit her. “Unless he’s from a Talented family that’s stayed low-profile, flying under the radar? Neezer said sometimes it ran in the bloodline like that. But not often, not so’s you could track it, anyway. So maybe he’s not private enemy number one after all.” She paused. “I wonder how he got on P.B.’s list.”
Sergei squinted at the list, trying to make out the handwriting. “Ursine?”
“Usury. Somebody’s got a light wallet, if he’s paying out the loan sharks, hey? Odd, you’d think he’d be making plenty of money. Kids’ tuition go up? He a gambler? The Cosa’s not pretty on people who welsh on debts.”
“No information on either. And they run some pretty heavy scans on people for exactly that. I’ll take it back and see what some determined digging can produce.”
Sometimes, Wren wondered about Sergei’s snitches. Not their ability—their origins. Mostly they were the usual: artists who heard every bit of gossip that rumbled through the collectibles world, high-rent agents who knew where the money was buried and the bodies bankrolled—that sort of thing. But every now and then she needed information you couldn’t get from a cocktail party, or through a discreet inquiry, and then his clear brown eyes would go dark and shadowed, and he’d refuse to say yea or nay…but the information always came through. And unlike his other sources, and her own, the information they gave was always straight-up. Always.
So she wondered, but never pried. For all that they pretty much lived in each other’s pockets during cases, weeks could go by otherwise when they only