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“Mr. Van Stann?”
Van Stann was a short man with sallow skin and a zealot’s eye. “The den of opium addicts near the fish market has been closed down. It required some cleansing to accomplish, but the owners will not attempt to reopen.”
“Costs?” This had been debated sharply among the members before action was taken, on exactly that question.
Van Stann didn’t hesitate. “Two residents were trapped inside, unable to move themselves enough to escape. They would not have lasted long on their own, anyway. I doubt even the kindest of homes would have kept them from the drug longer than a day or two. The building is a total loss.”
“We should have it strewn with salt, to be certain,” another man at the table suggested. “I know it is but superstition, but at times using their own fears against them is the only way to ensure success.”
There was a low rumble of agreement to that. The chairman was within rights to call the meeting back to order, but he allowed the side discussion to go on.
“And yet,” Mr. Goddard, a banker who brought a refreshingly practical viewpoint to the table, asked, “If we play into those fears, are we not encouraging them, rather than stamping them out? How can that be true to our charter, to protect them even from themselves?”
Van Stann was back on his feet. “If we can keep another place such as that from being rebuilt? Sometimes, the lesser evil—the much lesser evil in this case—must be embraced, to keep the ignorant from greater crimes!”
“And who are we to determine what the lesser evil is?” Goddard shot back. “I do not claim that level of wisdom for myself!”
“Gentlemen! Please!” The chairman knew his fellow members well enough to intercede at this point. It had never come to violence before in this chamber, and he prayed it never would, but every member of the Silence was full of conviction and fire, else they would not have been allowed entrance to the group.
Once he had them settled down and seated again, he continued, in a more sedate tone. “A suggestion has been raised, and not without merit—and risks. Does anyone second Mr. Van Stann’s motion?”
Several hands went up, while other faces turned hard as granite.
“Very well. It has been moved and seconded. All who are agreed?”
Seven hands raised.
“Opposed?”
Three hands.
“Seven to three, one abstaining. The motion passes. Add the cost of the salt to the minutes, if you would, Mr. Donnelly?”
The secretary nodded, his hand flying over his notepad. They had offered to buy him a typewriter, but he preferred the old-fashioned way of doing things.
“Is that all for old business? Very well then, I open the floor to discussion of new business. Mr. Clare?”
Ashton Claire stood, taking his time. He was a slender man, not much over five feet ten inches tall, and not quite so immaculately turned out as his companions, but the empty sleeve in his coat made others give way before him, as befitted a man who served his country in the Indian campaigns with honor, and paid the penultimate price.
“It has been reported that the selkies are back in the harbor. Already, we have lost three sailors to their wiles, two off naval ships at liberty, one a merchantman. The Portmaster begs our aid in the matter.”
There was a quiet murmur at that. Many of the men at the table had considerable investments tied up in shipping, and this struck close to home.
“We gave them fair warning, twice before,” the Chairman said heavily. “Still they cannot leave our harbor alone.”
Mr. Gilbert raised his hand, and was acknowledged. He stood, a tall, angular man, with deep hollows under his eyes. He was an importer, with direct and firsthand knowledge of the problem. “I do not underplay the significance of the damage selkies may do—they have long been a temptation to the sailing man long gone from his home.”
Several of the men at the table crossed themselves, or looked horrified, but Gilbert ignored them. “However, we must acknowledge that selkies were once man’s allies on the oceans. They may not understand why—to their eyes—we have turned against them.”
“That partnership took effect when mankind was still mired in the age of superstition and folly,” the Chairman said. “It is a weak relict of what humanity was once, not what it is becoming. Those partnerships are null and void in this modern age.”
Gilbert bowed his head to indicate his acceptance of that. “I do not disagree. But they are, as you say, of a different age, and slow to change.”
“We have given them warnings. We have told them to leave our men alone. Still, they persist. Is there a man here who would argue that we have not given fair notice?”
Gilbert waited a moment and then, finding himself alone, shook his head and sat down.
“So be it. Have their rocks slicked with oil and set afire. Any of the creatures who do not willingly leave after that, take care of with a single shot to the head or heart.”
“We should destroy all of them,” one of the men at the table muttered. “Filthy abominations!”
Gilbert would have reacted to that, but the Chairman was more swift.
“They are animals, Mr. Jackson. Of human mien, perhaps, but without the grace of God’s touch, and so unable to understand the evil of what they do. Had it been harpies, then I would be the first to agree with you, but selkies…They were, as Mr. Gilbert reminds us, our helpmeets once, and it behooves us to remember that. They are of an older age, and Time and Science has passed them by. Destroy them for that? No. If we must, then let it be only when we ourselves are in dire threat, and only then with a heavy heart. The Lord created them, as he created all on this earth, and it is not our place to judge His works.
“Now. Is there further old business for us to discuss?”
There was none.
two
Present Day
Wren Valere was getting dressed to go outside. It was a lovely spring morning, complete with birds cautiously twitting and an almost pleasant breeze coming off the Hudson River. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, and she was trying to decide if she was going to need the hot-stick or not.
Some genius in the Cosa had come up with this over the winter, after the Battle of Burning Bridge. Passed through a security screening, it looked like an insulated tube, maybe part of a thermos, or for bike messengers to carry important papers in. Totally harmless. In the hands of a Talent, someone with the ability to channel current through their bodies, it was the magical equivalent of a howitzer.
It didn’t pay, these dangerous days, to go outside unarmed.
She finally decided that she didn’t need it, not for a job in broad daylight, and put it back into the drawer with relief. She hated carrying a weapon, even when she had to.
To the ignorant eye, she looked the epitome of harmless and helpless: five feet and scant inches of nonentity. Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, and a figure that was neither eye-catchingly curvy nor attractively slim: Wren Valere disappeared the moment you laid eyes on her. It was a skill she had been born with, and honed over the years until she was one of the most successful Retrievers in record.
Now, it made her one of the most dangerous weapons the Cosa Nostradamus had. The more their enemies looked for her, the harder she was to find.
Hard didn’t mean impossible, though.
It had been three and a half months since the Battle, when an attempt to draw out the leaders of the human opposition had ended in bloodshed and destruction on both sides. Since then, the generations-old understanding between the “normal” world and the Cosa Nostradamus—best summed up as “you don’t see us and we won’t bother you”—had been badly shaken, if not shattered entirely. That shaking was the direct result of a vicious campaign waged, professionally and relentlessly, by anti-magical forces, unknowingly aided by factions within the Cosa who had seen only the chance to grow their own power and influence.
The intra-Cosa problems had been dealt with—or at least quieted for a while. The other…that force was still a real and present danger. The Humans First vigilantes who had been harassing the magic-using members of the Cosa and their non-human cousins the Fatae weren’t the real enemy, but merely shock troops employed unknowingly by a far more dangerous and well-funded organization—the Silence.
The same organization her partner—her ex-partner—used to work for. The same organization that had employed her, however briefly, when they were still pretending to be the good guys, the protectors of the innocent, the caretakers of Light and Virtue.
Innate and unwanted honesty forced Wren to occasionally acknowledge that it wasn’t that easy, as black-and-white as it sounded. Just as not everyone on the Mage Council was an uptight power-hungry murderer—just most of them—then not everyone in the generations-old Silence was a bigot who hated magic and anything to do with magic.
Only the ones in power. Only the ones calling the shots. The ones who had hired over a hundred of the younger Talent, and brainwashed them into becoming weapons against their own people.
Who had set ordinary human bigots against the Fatae, causing innocent creatures to be harassed, chased, torn apart by dogs and run down by cars.
Who had sworn, at that highest level, to wipe what they saw as the “abomination” of the Cosa Nostradamus, the beings of magic, out of existence.
But on this morning, the first Tuesday in May, Wren had nothing to do with the Council, the Silence, or anything else with any sort of organization above and beyond herself. Right at that moment, Wren was lacing up a pair of flat-soled sandals under her carpenter pants and cotton sweater, and getting ready to go out on a job.
Life in wartime didn’t mean life without work.
“Hey. You want another cup of coffee?” a voice asked.
She shook her head. “When I get back.” She was wired enough; she didn’t need the additional push of the caffeine.
The demon nodded, and took a sip out of the mug he held in his white-furred paw. Thick black claws showed darkly against the pale blue ceramic of the mug, which had the sea-wave logo of the Didier Gallery on it. It was the last one she had: the other had gotten broken during the farewell party they had held for some friends the week before.
Most of the Fatae who couldn’t pass for human had left town well before then, through a chain of households and helping hands the ever-irrepressible lonejacks were calling the Underground Furway, ignoring the fact that fully a third of the Fatae had scales, and the other third were plain-skinned. Her fellow lonejacks—human Cosa members unaffiliated with the Mage Council—stayed put for the most part, facing the danger with strength, courage, and an unending dose of irreverence.
The strength and courage had surprised her. The irreverence she had expected. You didn’t become a lonejack if you were comfortable with the party line, or didn’t try to bend it, every chance you got.
Despite being obviously Fatae, and therefore a prime target, P.B. had refused to even think about leaving town. The only concession he had made was to give up his basement apartment—in a crappy part of town the vigilantes patrolled too often—to move in with Wren for the duration. Her brownstone apartment was really too small for two people with personal space issues to live in comfortably, but another Talent, Bonnie, lived downstairs, and between the two of them, they could keep him safe.
They hoped.
These days, “safe” was a relative term.
“I have to go.” She picked up her leather jacket off the back of a chair and slid it on. The damned thing showed more wear and tear than she did, but there was comfort in the old familiarity of it.
“So? Go.” The demon shrugged. “We still on for the movies tonight?”
“Yeah. Bonnie and Jack will meet us there, they said. We can catch dinner after.”
Life in wartime didn’t mean you didn’t have a social life, either. You just went out in numbers. And armed, at night.
“Did you…” P.B. didn’t even finish that thought, much less the sentence.
“No,” she said anyway, and, unlocking the four different locks on the metal security door, left the apartment, and the question behind her.
Left alone in the apartment, the demon known as P.B. shook his head. A lifetime spent avoiding conflicts, avoiding ugly complications and useless entanglements, and he finally found his place at the side of a woman who was avoiding the best thing that ever came down the proverbial pike for her. That was karma for you.
Not that he blamed her, entirely. Sergei Didier had been a hero at Burning Bridge, but P.B. was the only one who knew it. On Didier’s orders, no less. The human had his reasons, but it didn’t make the estrangement between Wren and Didier any easier to deal with.
“She will be able to function better without me.”
Sergei loved Wren, and that made him blind, in a lot of ways. In the aftermath of the disaster at the Brooklyn Bridge, the Cosa didn’t have many leaders left. They were trying to hold together, hanging together, but P.B. had seen it all before, and it didn’t look good. They needed Valere, as much as she didn’t want to be needed. But he had tried to convince her of that, of her importance in the scheme of things, and failed. The only person who could possibly make her see reason was her partner. Ex-partner. In both the business and the personal use of the word.
Something had to be done about that, too. For the Cosa, and for P.B.’s own sake. Not only was Wren’s mood far sweeter when she was getting some horizontal action on a regular basis, but Didier was the only one besides Bonnie in this building who could actually cook.
Walking down the street toward the bus stop, Wren had already taken the demon’s parting words and implications and put them away where she didn’t have to look at them. She and Sergei…it was better this way. Ignoring all the stuff between them personally, which took a major amount of ignoring, the truth was that he had prevaricated to them—to her—about the Silence. He had held on to information they needed, information they deserved to have, to protect themselves, in the name of a loyalty he swore no longer existed.
Yeah, he had come clean in the end, or at least she thought he had, but the level of distrust in the Cosa toward him was pretty deep, and she…she couldn’t afford that. Couldn’t afford to be touched by it. Not if she wanted to survive this.
The Cosa had dragged her in not once but twice. Made her responsible, when that was the very last thing she wanted. People had died. Friends had died. And her city was being torn apart, even as she walked to work, all because the Silence hated anything not—to their eyes—purely human, and the Cosa didn’t trust anyone not Cosa.
Sergei claimed that he had been done with the Silence, had been done with them for years. But at the Battle of Burning Bridge last January, he had been there. Been on the scene, when nobody—not her, certainly not P.B.—had told him anything was going down.
It looked bad, no matter how fast he talked. It looked bad then, and it still looked bad now.
Two cops were standing on the corner of Eighth Avenue. They acted casual—one eye on the early morning traffic, one on the pedestrians passing by—but Wren made a living reacting off unspoken cues, and they were practically screaming unease, to her.
The shorter cop’s gaze touched on her, moved on. She hadn’t invoked her usual no-see-me cantrip yet, because it was tough enough to get a bus to stop without intentionally making it difficult to see you standing there, but she was naturally forgettable. Unless she suddenly developed wings or green skin or shot at them….
The NYPD was still a little twitchy in the aftermath of Burning Bridge, too. For decades, there had been Fatae in the ranks, until scrutiny got tightened, and most of the older cops had pretty decent memories of a partner who was just a little…weird. But a reminder of that winter morning would not go over well right now. Cops had gotten hurt, too.
For that reason alone, Wren wished that P.B. had made like so many of his cousins and beat feet out of town. Old loyalties and vague memories weren’t much to count on when there were so many bloody incidents happening. Because it was quiet right now didn’t mean it would be quiet five minutes from now. The tension she could feel constantly in her skin reminded her of that, every moment she was awake and most of her sleeping time as well.
The bus came and Wren got on, sliding between the ranks of her fellow commuters to a place where she could rest against the back of a seat, and not worry about being shoved as people got on or off at each stop.
Other people carried briefcases, computer bags. She had a yellow canvas shoulder bag that had seen better years, and a set of lockpick tools tucked into a leather case strapped against her stomach. Thighs could be ogled, backs-of-back touched, but generally not even the most intrepid of security guards touched a woman’s stomach. Not unless you were already in deeper kimchee than a lockpick would warrant.
There was a quiet urge inside her, to reach down and touch her core, just for reassurance. Connecting to her core—the pit of current that lived inside her, and made her a Talent—would settle her nerves, her uncertainties. Not because it was reassuring—it wasn’t—but because the level of confidence and control it took to manage it overrode everything else. You went down into the core, you were calm and controlled, or you lost ownership. And once that happened…It was instinctive, by the time a Talent was allowed out on her own. But she couldn’t let herself reach for it.
Not unless she wanted to fry every single laptop, PDA, watch, cell phone, and music-playing device on this bus. Her control was, well, in control. But her emotions were totally not.
Damn you, Didier. Damn you for making me shove you away. I need you, you stupid, selfish, arrogant bastard! She had counted on him, and he had failed her.
Her stop came up and she slipped off the bus, weaving her way through the crowds of Times Square. Even at this hour, there were tourists. At every hour, there were tourists. Wren wouldn’t mind them quite so much if they’d just learn how to walk. You didn’t stop in the middle of a sidewalk to have a conversation with ten of your bestest buddies. You didn’t wave your camera around like it was a baton. And you absolutely didn’t stand there with your wallet open, counting out your bills after you bought breakfast from a bagel cart.
Wren pocketed the handful of bills almost absently, and decided that the camera wasn’t pretty enough for the taking. Anyway, what would she do with it? Her only experience with cameras was ducking whenever her mother’s then-boyfriend tried to take a photo of her, as a child.
Her quarry was up ahead: the Taylor Theater. The Taylor was one of the smaller venues, holding on to its dignity with a restored Art Deco facade. Broadway had never been demure, but she always had class, even draped in neon and splattered with six-story-high underwear ads, and the Taylor was every inch a classy dame.
Wren loved living in Manhattan, and she especially loved wandering through Times Square. It was an unspoken law, known to every New York Talent: You don’t recharge on Broadway. The neon, the floodlights, the endless uncountable miles of wiring and secondary power sources, they all had an invisible “paws off” sign. Like hospitals and nuclear power plants, you just didn’t.
That didn’t mean you couldn’t feel a buzz, walking under the throbbing, pulsing, sweating lights. Wren let it pass through her, not trying to catch any of the current shimmering in the air. It was spring, there had been a thunderstorm over the weekend, and her core was sated and ready to go.
The job had come in two days ago, via a friend of a friend of a former client. A smash-and-grab, without much smash. Not much of a grab, either—an old prop that had some sort of sentimental value to the client, and was being held by another actor as his own good luck charm.
Actors. Jesus wept. They made the Cosa seem well-adjusted.
Once, Wren would have grumbled about a job that was, in effect, sleepwalking; she used to thrive on the rev of adrenaline that came from outsmarting a security system, outwitting guards, and getting away with something someone else didn’t want you to have.
Now, she was working to pay the rent, and keep herself occupied, and nothing else need apply, thanks. Certainly no more adrenaline.
At least she didn’t have to worry about the cost of feeding P.B.—demon couriers were never out of work, especially in times of unease and suspicion, and with him in the apartment on a full-time basis, he was placing regular online grocery orders on his own dime.
Apparently they really would give anyone a credit card.
She came upon the theater, and walked past it, giving it a casual once-over with her eyes, and another deeper one with a narrow thread of current. Nothing struck her as being out of place or odd. More odd, anyway, she thought, walking past the Naked Cowboy, trying to strum up some attention. Broadway might have class, but not all of her residents did.
She turned the corner and went into the wine store there, spending a few minutes looking around as though comparing prices on the red wines in the sale bin. The only thing Wren knew about wine was that she usually liked whatever Sergei suggested, but it was a good way to kill a few minutes. People spent hours trying to decide wines—clerks generally left you alone if you looked like you were a serious shopper, until you made eye contact with them.
Four minutes later, Wren shook her head as though disappointed with the selection, and walked back out of the store, back toward the theater.
