Blood from Stone (19 page)

“You’re just so appallingly cynical,” she told him.

“Very sexy.”

He just smiled at her, and she felt an answering smirk rise up. For a moment, just a moment in these familiar surroundings it was light and easy and the only stress was trying to keep one step ahead of her
monthly payments and dodging her mother’s attempts to match-make with a nice boy from home.

Then the moment faded, and she was back in today’s reality again.

“What do you think?” she asked him, pointing what was left of her bread at him like a baton.

“I think it’s a risk. And I’m not sure if we can take on any more risks right now.”

“Okay. Point taken.” They were treading into deep water with P.B.’s job, and maybe not the best time to be juggling new uncertainties, when they were still recovering, and so much else was on the personal plate. But…“Not every new ally is dangerous. Sometimes they’re just annoying.” He raised his pale brown eyes to her in query and she shrugged. “And sometimes they’re damned useful. If not now, then later.”

“That was the gist of her offer, as well. That we might be useful to her later.”

“You normally appreciate that kind of long-term thinking,” she said.

Their wine came and the conversation paused until the waiter went back to hover over the other couple in the tiny restaurant, who still hadn’t decided what they wanted for dinner.

“Normally yes. But I prefer it be us who think forward, and everyone else be short-term and shortsighted.”

“You don’t like her?” Wren frowned. “So you don’t think I should meet with her?”

He was primed to agree, to say that he thought that Wren should keep her distance; that any government agent who wanted to know a Talent personally had an ulterior motive he didn’t like.

Then he had a sudden flick of a switch and was thinking less like a business manager and more like a partner. If he said no, and Wren ever did meet Agent Chang, her first thought would be to wonder if that woman’s looks had anything to do with his desire to keep them apart.

It didn’t. It really didn’t. But convincing Wren of that after the fact…he might as well just slice himself open now and save the time later.

“Yeah actually. I think you should meet. I’d like your take on her, before we dismiss anything out of hand.”

The food came then and the conversation was put aside in favor of eating. The food was as good as previous visits, and for a while the only noises were those of satisfied diners, interrupted occasionally by the waiter coming around to offer to refill their glasses.

“I think I’m tipsy,” Wren said, after they’d agreed to a glass of port instead of dessert. “I haven’t drunk this much since…New Year’s, I think. Mister Didier, are you trying to get me drunk to take advantage of me?”

“The thought never once crossed my mind,” he protested, all innocence. “Since when do I need to get you drunk?”

She looked at him with a sparkle that hadn’t been in her eye for a very long time, and Sergei almost broke his fingers getting his credit card out of his wallet to pay for the meal.

Her breath was scented with red wine and coffee, and her skin smelled like baby powder. They were only a few blocks from Wren’s apartment and they held hands the entire way, strolling in the crisp night air like new-
lyweds, or a third-date couple. On the third landing Sergei threw caution—and common sense—to the wind and picked Wren up in a gentle fireman’s carry, taking the rest of the steps two at a time.

“Oh, God, Sergei, crazy man, what are you doing?” she squealed, which made the effort worth it.

He was panting so hard when he reached her landing, he had a moment’s fear he was about to have a heart attack.
Idiot macho ego.

She took pity on him, and as they came to her front door, current snapped the locks open and invisible hands pulled the door open.

He hadn’t known she could do that. Then again, he hadn’t known she couldn’t, either. He didn’t much care. His mind was on other things right then.

The door closed behind them, the locks snicking shut one by one, and he carried her down the hallway to the dark green warmth of her bedroom, not bothering to turn on the lamp.

He fell onto the bed first, bringing her down on top of him, and even as they hit the mattress she was squirming free, her hands reaching for his shirt, flicking open the buttons one by one.

“Careful,
Zhenchenka,
that’s a good work shirt.”

“I’ll be gentle,” she promised, and he grunted, his own fingers sliding under her top, fingers stroking the warm flesh there, feeling the male satisfaction when she had to stop what she was doing to deal with the shudder that ran down her spine at his touch. A good shudder, deep and thick, and he knew without even looking at her face that her eyes were heavy-lidded, her head tilted back slightly, her lips curled in the tiniest of smirks.

Blood surged into his cock, and the weight of his clothing against his skin was suddenly too much. But first, Wren.

She was wearing basic cotton; he had dated women who brought him to his knees with silk and lace, and she did it with a cotton knit sweater and a practical cotton bra, and he was thankful, actually, because he could toss them on the floor without worrying too much about what shape they were in come morning.

And then his hands were on her skin and he wasn’t thinking about any kind of clothing at all. Her body was supple and smooth above him; he could feel the muscle moving beneath the flesh, but there was enough flesh to pad out her hips and ribs pleasingly, and her breasts,
thank all the stars in the universe for her breasts
he thought, as close to a prayer as he normally got. He cupped their weight in his hand, the nipples hard against his palms.

She got herself out of her pants while he was otherwise occupied, and straddled him wearing only a wisp of panties. Cotton again, maybe, but they were barely there as she stroked his crotch with her own, riding him like a pony, a tease of what was to come.

His shirt was finally open, but it was too much effort to shrug out of it, when it was so much more important to get the hell out of his pants.

Her hands were at his belt, opening his fly, urging his hips up so she could tug the pants down, taking his underwear with it. Only to discover, with a snort of laughter that he was still wearing his dress shoes.

He tried to kick them off, but they were well-made, with good laces, and stayed put on his feet.

She turned, leaving his hands bereft, to deal with the laces, and his hands were presented with a new object of fascination: her rounded cheeks.

“Slap me and regret it,” she warned, without even looking back, and he restrained himself to merely caressing them. There was a cool breath on his toes, and the sound of shoes dropping to the floor, and he pulled the cotton panties off her and pulled her back onto him with such speed that she let out a little squeak of surprise.

Her ass brushed his erection, and then she wiggled a little, opening her thighs for him. He groaned with pleasure at the sensation, and with his hands on her hips, carefully guided them both home.

“You’re…”

“Shh.”

Thankfully, she shushed, spreading herself wider on his lap, and he was able to slide into her with relative ease, only a little awkwardness trying to find her entrance. God, she was tight, as though it had been months instead of weeks since they’d had any kind of physical contact. He went hilt-deep, her weight solidly on him, and he rocked forward, drawing a groan out of her that was sweeter than honey.

They were normally face-to-face lovers, finding comfort in open eyes and whispers, tasting and touching. But this position felt right deep inside her, Wren’s knees drawn up, her controlling the pace while he held on for the ride, letting go and falling into her, all over again….

They came together, her startled yell and immediate collapse backward matching his own explosive “whoof” and reactionary melting of muscles that had been so tense up until then.

They lay there both supine on the bed, covered in sweat, until she started to giggle.

“Get off me, woman,” he commanded. “You’re dripping.”

“Whose fault is that?” she asked, but obediently rolled off him, and he could breathe again, already missing her weight on him.

“Nice,” she said, her voice already soft and drowsy. “Very nice.”

She was like a guy in that; sex always made her sleepy. He’d take offense, if it didn’t match his own preferences perfectly. They could talk in the morning. He gathered her up next to him, sweaty skin sticking to sweaty skin. She curled against his side and before he could even think to ask if she wanted to get under the blanket, they were both asleep.

Wren woke up with a grin on her face. Not a smile, not a smirk, a full-wattage, canary-feathered expression of satisfaction that made her jaw hurt. It took her a while to figure out why.

Bed, check. Her own bed. Warm and cozy. Nice, but not grin-worthy, exactly. She had slept in, judging from the sunlight managing to get through her dark green drapes; again, nice but nothing of real impact. Achy legs and abs—some of that from the gym workout yesterday but more from the workout last night. That was grin-worthy, oh, yes, but it felt as if more was behind it, somehow.

So. Sex. With Sergei. Nice sex. Very nice sex, in fact. The thought warmed up the already-comfortable temperature in the bedroom slightly, better than any furnace could. For the first time in—she didn’t want to think about how long since they had done more than cautious mutual hand-and-mouth-play, actually. So, nice. Made
nicer by the fact that it had happened not when she wasn’t so tired she could barely stir current, but when she was rested and alert. All right, maybe “alert” wasn’t the right word. But even better than that, in fact: it had happened when she was slightly drunk from the wine at dinner. A drunk—or even tipsy—Talent typically had less control over impulse-reactions. It should have been a recipe for disaster. Instead, there had been no overflow of current, no loss of control. No need to ground in Sergei, because even with more flowing in and around her core, she had been able to control it all.

And, more to the point, he hadn’t seemed to feel the need for her to ground in him, either. Her partner had a good time—she had a very clear memory of how good a time he’d been having and the finger-bruises on her hips to prove it—without the need to enhance it by having her ground current in him. He might have wanted it, might have thought about it, but that want or thought hadn’t limited his participation, or put a strain on their mutual satisfaction.

That was—cautiously—grin-worthy.

It didn’t prove anything was cured or solved or whatever. But it was more progress than they’d had in months.

Of course, waking to memories and no actual body was less than thrilling. She felt the space in the bed next to her: cool. If it was as late as she thought, he would already be up and showered and having breakfast—or even gone off to work. Drat. She moved enough to look over the side of the bed. Her clothes were still scattered there, but his were gone. Shoes, too.

Oh, well.

She collapsed back into bed, pulling the covers up over her bare skin, and snuggled down into the pillow. As long as she was in bed, she might as well sleep a little longer.

And then of course, the phone rang. Wren considered letting the answering machine get it, but the fact that it was already midmorning made her throw the covers off and pad, bare-assed, down the hallway and into the kitchen. There was another phone in the office, but her instinct was always to go to the main line.

The fact that the coffee was there, as well, probably had something to do with it.

The coffeemaker was on and there was in fact a full pot waiting, hot and strong-looking. She picked up the phone in one hand and reached for a mug with the other.

“Hello?” Her voice was scratchy and she had to clear her throat and try again. “Hello?” She got the mug, and put it on the counter, then turned to reach for the coffeepot. Her kitchen was small enough that everything was more or less within arm’s distance no matter where you stood. She looked out the window to check the weather, and was annoyed and then thankful, considering she hadn’t put on her robe, that the shade was pulled down.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” It was Sergei on the other end of the line, sounding far too chipper. She twisted the phone cord with her fingers and tried not to grin even more widely.

“Barely. Bless you for turning the machine on.”

“Figured you’d need it.”

They were both very blasé, very casual, very matter-of-fact. Wren wasn’t going to mention the fabulous noncurrentical sex if he wasn’t. No damage, no mention, no
jinxing, no big deal. But it
was,
and she knew that he knew it, too. Not saying anything didn’t make it any less.

“I’ve arranged a meeting,” Sergei said, and it took her a minute for her brain to catch up and remember what he was talking about. The Fed. Right.

“This morning?”

He laughed a low, amused chortle. “Valere, it’s two in the afternoon.”

“Holy mother of God.” Wren actually looked at the new solar-powered clock on the wall—a replacement for the old battery-operated one she had fried on a particularly bad day—and shook her head. “I guess I really was tired. Or tired-out.”

He ignored the comment. “Can you make yourself presentable and get over to the coffee shop near the gallery by three?”

Thank God, a different coffee shop. She didn’t want to start getting so predictable her enemies—or even her friends—could target her movements or probable destinations. A little paranoia was never a bad thing. “Yeah no problem. Any suggestions on who I should be?” She rarely met with clients, or even anyone who might be tempted to hire her; not so much to keep herself unknown, since few people ever remembered what she looked like anyway, as to not get involved in the hiring discussions or negotiations. The few times she did she deferred to Sergei’s opinion as to what sort of look she should project, depending on how he was selling her.

“Comfortable,” he said. “Oh, excellent, Lowell has a large fish on the line. I need to go close the deal. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Okay,” she said, but he had already hung up, hot on
the scent of money. Wren finished pouring a cup of coffee into the oversize yellow mug she had stolen from a store in Grand Central Station and carried it with her to the bathroom. “Comfortable. I’m going to assume he didn’t mean pajamas.” Although that would certainly set a definite tone for the meeting, absolutely. “Hi, I’m The Wren. Trust me, I’m Comfy.” She grinned again. Probably not, not even for the look on Sergei’s face.

He really was fun to tweak, though. She hadn’t been doing enough of that lately, caught up in the seemingly unending Sturm und drama of their lives. They deserved a break, damn it. Hopefully the recent bits of playfulness from both of them, like last night’s vanilla-but-tasty sex, were a good sign.

She put the coffee mug on the edge of the sink, balancing it with the casualness of long practice, and turned the shower on. While she waited for the water heater to kick in, she finger-combed the snarls out of her hair, wincing periodically. Sergei was a finger-tangler when he was in the moment, and her hair tangled if you looked at it wrong.

Detangled, she got under the shower head and let the hot water take the edge, pounding into her skin and raising a mottled flush. It wasn’t good for her, probably, but it
felt
good. A quick shampoo and rinse, and she turned the water off, standing there dripping in the tub a moment.

“Awake. Yeah,” she decided, and reached for a towel.

In the end, she settled on a pair of unripped, reasonably unfaded jeans and a dark blue v-neck sweater. Her hair, brushed out but still damp, hung past her shoulders and made her face look very young, if not in
nocent. She used blush and a pale lipstick, just enough to give a polish that contradicted the youthful look, and then added a pair of brown leather boots that added another three inches to her height. She had bought them on a whim when they were on sale, and never had a place to wear them until now.

By the time she was done it was almost two forty-five, and she had to double-time it down the stairs, grabbing her battered leather jacket and shoulder bag as she went out the door. A bus happened to be going past as she hit the nearest stop and she madly flagged it down. The driver must have been in a good mood, or maybe someone on the bus had pissed him off specifically, because he stopped and let her get on. Nobody glared at her from the few seats that were occupied, so maybe it was just good karma day.

The traffic wasn’t horrible, and she ended up walking into the coffee shop only a few minutes late.

All right, ten minutes. For mass transit time that wasn’t too bad, she thought. Sergei was already seated in a booth in the back, facing the door so that he would see her—or anyone—as they came in. She noted that he was also able to see the entrances to both bathrooms and the kitchen, as well, and didn’t know if she should be impressed that she noted that he had done that, or unnerved.

The woman with him had black hair and good posture, and that was all she could tell from here. Dodging a waitress balancing two pots of coffee, one with the terrifying orange handle of decaf, Wren crossed the space and joined them. From the way the woman started as the Retriever slid into the booth next to Sergei,
the agent hadn’t seen or sensed her coming. From the way she collected herself after that start, she hadn’t been expecting to see or sense Wren, or was really good at public recovery.

“Agent Chang.”

“Ms. Valere.”

Wren took the other woman’s measure quickly. Damn. And also, damn. Gorgeous, yeah: and if Wren could read people at all, not entirely thrilled with the fact. Like Wren she was low on the face paint, her sleek black hair cut bluntly at chin length so it was easy to care for, dressed more formally than Wren in a pantsuit that skirted being standard government issue by being a dark forest-green herringbone rather than navy blue. Summation: a woman who knew what worked for her, and what was expected, and how to make them work together, but didn’t take anything nature had given her too seriously. The kind of woman Danny would know, yeah.

Wren liked her immediately, but didn’t let any of that show.

“I’m told you wanted to be able to say you knew me.” She caught the agent’s gaze, one pair of brown eyes and one pair of black watching the other carefully.

“I suspect you were told no such thing,” Chang replied evenly.

Sergei looked as though he was going to say something, but a light tap on his foot from Wren’s boot silenced him. Danny’d had his fun, now she was going to have hers.

“Not in so many words, no. But it all comes down to bragging rights, doesn’t it?”

“I try not to brag. It gets in the way of actual accomplishments.”

Wren snorted, and broke the gaze-hold by turning to attract the waiter’s attention and asking silently, in universal coffee shop sign language, for a menu.

“So now that you’ve…accomplished this, what now, Agent Chang?”

“I would like to pick your brain, if I may,” she said. “About what it is that you do, who you are. How many of you there are.”

“There’s only one of me,” Wren said, fully expecting Sergei to chime in with a fervent “Thank God.” He remained silent, however.

Chang sized her up again, clearly thinking through her words before asking the next question. “You are not the only person with extraordinary abilities, even if you are deeply extraordinary. How do you refer to yourselves?”

P.B.’s comment, that most groups merely called themselves some variant of “true people” came to Wren’s mind, but she wasn’t sure how far she could tweak this woman without her getting pissy, so she decided to mix things up a little with straight truth and see how she reacted.

“We’re not very original. Talent.”

“Talent.” Nope, she didn’t sound impressed.

“Well, it’s a talent, what we do, and we are what we do, and so…Talent.” Truth, all truth, as far as it went.

“And there are a lot of you.” That wasn’t a question, the way it was said, so Wren didn’t feel the need to respond. There were a lot, by some standards. By others, their population was depressingly small. Certainly they would qualify for minority status in any census. “And you are all…human?”

“The way you ask that implies that you think that we’re not.”

“You’re human,” Chang said.

Some devil made Wren ask, “Are you sure?”

Chang blinked at her, and Wren thought she felt Sergei quivering with barely suppressed
something
next to her. Hopefully, it was laughter.

“You’re close enough to pass in a crowded elevator,” Chang finally said. “If I was to start determining what was human and what wasn’t, I’d have to back out half the population and almost everyone I work with.”

Sergei did laugh, then.

“What do you already know, Agent Chang?” Wren leaned back, resting one arm comfortably along the back of the banquette, behind Sergei’s shoulders. Not that she was being territorial or anything. But Agent Chang
was
damn gorgeous.

“Anea,” the other woman said. “My name is Anea.”

“Genevieve,” she offered in return, acknowledging and accepting the no-poaching, no-foul discussion without anything more being said. “What do you already know, so I don’t waste your valuable time repeating anything?”

What she really meant, and what Chang understood she meant, was that Wren wasn’t going to risk giving anything away she didn’t have to.

“Our mutual acquaintance didn’t tell me much. I know that you…your people, are able to manipulate electrical power for rather impressive results, up to and including blacking out entire cities. And that you, yourself, have a reputation for being able to lay hands on items that others have not been able to obtain.”

Well, that was one of the more diplomatic ways of de
scribing her job, certainly. Agent Chang—Anea—could go into advertising, if the Fed thing didn’t work out.

“And that you were involved in a recent fracas here in Manhattan that resulted in a rather impressive body count and absolutely no publicity, no charges filed, and no repercussions.”

The idea that there had been no repercussions would have been funny, if it weren’t so painful. Wren’s humor in the situation faded slightly.

“I admit to being…very interested in the details of that, and earlier, incidents, as a law enforcement official, no matter that they were never formally investigated.”

Wren’s amusement faded a little more. That was what she—and pretty much every other lonejack in the city—had been afraid of: official attention.

“I also know—” and the Asian woman hesitated, playing absently with her coffee spoon in a way that suggested that she didn’t actually know, but was fishing “—that you have…associates who are
not
human. Specifically, an individual known as Polar Bear?”