“What?” I couldn’t have been the only one hearing that wrong.
“P-U-P-I.” DB—Venec—spelled it out. “Private, Unaffiliated, Paranormal Investigations. The name was Ian’s idea—” he shot his partner a rueful glance “—but it has the benefit of being easily remembered. A team of trained forensic Talents, shorn of their normal affiliations of lonejack or Council, answerable only to the evidence, the truth. A handpicked group of investigators who don’t care why, only how, and who. A group who can deliver evidence to be used to prosecute and punish Talent who think they can escape detection by ordinary methods.”
“And you want to hire … us.” Pietr’s voice was carefully noncommittal.
“Any of you can get up and walk out at any time,” Stosser said, coming to rest by his partner’s side, hands clasped behind his back as though to keep them from waving about while he talked. “There’s nothing keeping you here against your will. We chose your names not by random chance, but because each and every one of you met our criteria for intelligence, independence, determination, curiosity, and a certain … dogged stubbornness.”
Nifty coughed deep in his throat, like a strangled laugh, and I had to grin in self-recognition. All the traits J occasionally despaired of, suddenly touted as employable virtues. That was funny.
“You’re free to walk,” Venec said. “But none of you will. The fact that you made it this far, through all of our tests, means that you are perfect for this challenge … and the job is perfect for you.”
He smiled then, an arrogant, challenging smile, and a shiver ran through me that had nothing whatsoever to do with the ghoulishness of what we’d been discussing. He was yummy, yeah, and intense … and offering me what just might be the job of a lifetime.
This was either going to be a clusterfuck of monumental proportions … or a whole lot of fun.
five
My mentor took the news about as well as I’d expected.
“Absolutely not! Impossible! You need a real job, not this … irresponsible pipe dream! Stosser—bah, Ian Stosser has always been a troublemaker, and this partner of his, this Ben Venec … I’ve never heard of him. Who is he? What are his credentials? Where is their funding coming from?”
J had been ranting for almost an hour now, ever since I Translocated into his Beacon Hill apartment and told him the results of the afternoon’s meeting. Periodically I used a strand of current to check his blood pressure, an intimacy he allowed me only because he was too distracted to slap the tendril away, and then went back to my own thoughts. Eventually he would run down, and we could have a reasonable discussion.
Not that it mattered. I had already made up my mind.
It took another ten minutes, but finally my mentor dropped into his chair and stared gloomily across the room at me. I lifted my head up from the paperwork I’d been flipping through, and met his gaze evenly.
“And you didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” he asked.
“I heard every syllable,” I said in the same measured, reasonable tone he was using now. “I even agreed with some of them.”
“But you disagree with the overall conclusion.”
I scratched the tip of my nose and tossed the folder of papers onto the end table. The salary they were offering was passing-decent, the benefits not worth mentioning, and none of it mattered, really. None of it had since The Guys, as I’d started thinking of them, had given us the pitch.
“Joseph. You know they’re right. About the need for this—for unbiased investigators for the Cosa—and about how very good I’d be at it.”
J knew what I was talking about, and I knew that he really didn’t want to think about that. His expression didn’t change, but he shifted in his chair, just enough to let me know he was uncomfortable.
“That was different,” he said, not meeting my gaze.
“Of course it was,” I agreed. “I was just a kid looking to see what had happened to her dad, after he left me a mysterious letter and then disappeared. All I did was poke around into a few dark holes—” including one that belonged to a loan-sharking cave dragon “—and ask a few questions, and use current to trace down the clue that led to the guy who killed my father … “
I played dirty then. “And then I couldn’t do anything.” I paused, letting that statement drill down a little. “There was no one to go to with what I knew, then. Not even you could do anything. I had no evidence, nothing that could be used in an ordinary court of law, and no way to give Zaki justice. He wasn’t Council, so Council wouldn’t get involved. There was no way to get closure, unless I was willing to do the deed myself.”
Zaki hadn’t been much of a dad, but he’d been a good person. He didn’t deserve to get killed over a woman he hadn’t even touched. And he would have hated me having blood on my hands, especially in his name. That, not legalities, not any sense of civilized behavior, had been all that had stayed me. But J never needed to know that, if he hadn’t twigged already.
“Child, you are a dirty pool player.”
“Equal parts nature and nurture,” I said in reply, and it was true. I might be the child of drifters and grifters, but J hadn’t gotten to where he had in his career by always playing by the strict interpretation of the rules. Always legit, sure, but maybe not always kosher. There was no way I was going to grow up a delicate, idealistic flower, under those conditions.
J had a crease between his eyebrows, meaning that a headache was creeping down from his scalp. I didn’t want to cause the old man any worry—I never wanted him to worry about me ever—but I couldn’t back down. Not about this.
Meanwhile, I had my own forehead-crease forming. There was something niggling at the back of my brain, about this job. Not a bad thing, just a thing I needed to remember, or a connection I needed to make. If I left it alone, it would come crawling out on its own.
“Dirty pool,” J said again, then leaned back in the chair, letting his legs sprawl in front of him. Rupe appeared from wherever he’d been hiding during the rant and settled his shaggy body on the carpet next to J’s chair. “You really think that this … wannabe investigational unit can accomplish anything? Do you think they will make a difference?”
“We won’t know unless we try.” And then I played even dirtier. “Would you have been able to use us, something like this, out in Seattle?”
I didn’t have to say anything more; part of loving someone is knowing what still bothers them. He sighed, and all the argument went out of him, just like that. He reached down to pet Rupe’s head. “I hate to say it, and when I say hate I do mean hatred, but … yes. We could have, and by god, we would have, if I had anything to say about the matter.”
J was a stickler for honesty, even when it hurt.
“You are correct, Bonita. This may be exactly what the Cosa needs … and, more to my regret, it may be exactly what you need.”
It wasn’t a paternal blessing, exactly, but it would do.
The question of my employment settled for the moment, J gathered all the paperwork from me and spent about an hour explaining it all, in excruciating detail. His grudging approval of their having health insurance and a 401(k) set up would have been funny if it wasn’t all so surreal, and I signed in the places he marked without really paying much attention. The paycheck had suddenly—and probably stupidly—become secondary to me. I was never going to make a good mercenary.
The initial argument, followed by what seemed like endless paperwork, took so much out of us that I vetoed his cooking, and we ended up doing take-away Thai and beer instead. J sometimes forgets he isn’t fifty anymore.
We had a few more rounds of “do you think this is a good idea” over the last of the six-pack, and I went back to New York under his current, a little before midnight. All this Translocating back and forth between Boston and New York was starting to make my neck ache. Next time, I thought as I crawled into bed, I was going to take the Chinatown bus. Or, considering I now had a paying job, maybe I’d go crazy and take Greyhound. Or hey, Amtrak! Or maybe, once I got an apartment, I could drag J down here for dinner, for a change. I hadn’t cooked for anyone in a long time ….
That thought consoled me as I put my head on the pillow and was out almost before my eyes were closed. I slept well, no dreams intruding, so the wake-up call at 6:00 a.m. was a rude shock. I rolled over, snagged the receiver, grunted something into the phone. and then dropped it back into the cradle. “Oh god,” I moaned, and then rolled out of bed for what I supposed would be my first day at work.
Supposed, because at the end of the interview yesterday, they’d just handed us the papers, and told us to think it over, and they’d either see us today, or not.
I got out of the shower and stood in front of the closet, hesitating over what to wear. For some reason, a perfectly office-appropriate slim blue skirt and white blouse didn’t feel right. I dithered for a while, then finally opted for a V-neck sweater the same shade of red as my hair, and black pants with subdued buckles and loops over a pair of heeled black half boots. Not quite my stompy boots, but they’d do for confidence. You couldn’t be wimpy, wearing boots.
The subway was packed with people going off to their jobs, some of them slow-eyed and grumpy, others bopping along to their music, or nose-deep in newspapers or magazines. I didn’t even bother to try to get a seat, just grabbed a handrail and concentrated on not focusing on the hum of current running through the subway, for fear of accidentally damaging someone’s electronics. I was used to ignoring the hum of electronics in the dorm, but that was familiar ground … hopefully in a few weeks, this would be, too.
I got out at my stop, along with a dozen other people, and wasn’t all that surprised to see Nick loitering outside the building when I walked up. I’d figured he’d take the offer, too. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a cotton sweater over it, brown like his eyes, and he looked less scrawny than he had on Tuesday. Weird.
“I did some looky-loo on our bosses,” he said, without even a good morning. “Ian Stosser’s Council, like you. Major hotshot. Sat on the Council itself, out in Chicago.”
I’d known that already, thanks to J’s ranting. See, there’s Council, and then there’s Council. They’re split into regions and each Council Board—also less formally known as Mage Council, from waybackwhen days—handles the stuff that comes up in their region. Each one’s independent, and while a couple of Councils can get together to do something specific, nobody’s got more say than the other, and you don’t get say over anything that happens outside your region. It’s all pretty strict, and goes on the philosophy that if there’s trouble, Talent will find it, fling it, and generally make it worse, if left to their own devices. J hadn’t been very complimentary on Stosser’s attitude or his ideas during his rant last night, but he’d been forced to admit that the man got things done, mainly by a combination of hard-nosed arrogance and sheer slippery charm.
“He got kicked out of Chicago for something nobody’s talking about,” Nick went on. “Which means it was probably seriously embarrassing to someone, else the gossip would be everywhere.”
“Several someones, is what I heard,” I agreed. “My mentor knows people who know people, and even they don’t know what happened. But Stosser wasn’t kicked out. He left under his own power. That means he won, whatever it was.” If he had lost, he’d have been buried. Powerwise, not literally, far as I knew, although there was that risk, too. That was how it worked, at those levels.
“Huh. Means he’s got smarts as well as power, probably. Reason enough to throw in with him,” Nick said. “Even if he is Council.”
“Venec isn’t,” I said, trying to ignore the slam on the Council. Wasn’t anything to me, was it?
“Nope, he’s pure lonejack. Quiet, though. Wherever he’s been, it was behind the scenes. Don’t know how those two hooked up. Every source I checked knew Venec’s name, but nobody had anything to say, good or bad.”
“He’s the dangerous one,” Pietr said, making us both jump.
