Laura Gilman - Curse the Dark

Wren didn’t mind, really. Smiling Sergei was always better than grumpy Sergei, especially when they were being gestured at by pissed-off looking guys in uniforms.

“Signore?”

“I think we’re being summoned,” she said, poking her partner in the ribs and jerking her chin in the direction of the customs counter.

“Right.” He grabbed his bags and moved forward, Wren close on his heels. “Buon giorno.”

“Buon giorno. I passaporti?”

Sergei handed over their passports and entry paperwork, and the official gave them a cursory once-over. “Vieni in Italia per affari commerciale o come turista?”

“Affari.”

Wren’s attention wandered. Having touched the current in this place, she was now overly aware of it. And of the fact that dipping into it would be almost as good as a shower.

Then she caught a glimpse of an armed guard standing just beyond the security gate, clearly ready and able for trouble, and her exhausted-into-quiet nerves pinged again.

Maybe not. Somewhere not quite so…stressed. This airport didn’t have the same tension as back home, but it was still an airport, and screwing up in airports was still very much not a good idea. Especially since she didn’t know any of the Cosa in town, assuming there even were any. Oh. That was a twist she hadn’t thought of. Not that it mattered so much here, but when they got to where they were going she would have to check things out, see if she could meet up with someone, maybe get the lay of the land. It would be rude to be in town and not even try to say hello, right?

And then Sergei was nudging her, indicating that they were done, moving her through the doors and into the terminal itself. Here was the noise and bustle Wren had been expecting, although it was still relatively empty.

“Coffee!” She started forward, then stopped. “ATM first. Then coffee. Then…wasn’t someone supposed to meet us?”

Sergei looked around. “Yes.” He reached into his carry-on and pulled out the burgundy folder again. “One Marina Fabrizio. She’s supposed to be our contact person here.”

“Fine. You look for her. I’m gonna hit an ATM and then get some coffee. You want anything?”

“A double espresso, please. And bring back a couple of sugar packets.”

“A double?” She gave him a dubious look. Sergei was a tea drinker—he drank coffee reluctantly, and without any real enjoyment.

“It’s a long drive to where we’re going,” he reminded her. “I need to stay awake.”

“Right. One double, extra sugar. Oh boy.”

Sergei watched Wren head off into the terminal, slipping past the few travelers like a ghost. His partner was statistically ordinary with a capital O—five-four, well built but not in any way that would draw undue attention, brown hair and brown eyes and skin the color of…of pure vanilla ice cream. Tasty, yes, but unless you knew that, decidedly ordinary. And when you added in her ability to warp current into a sort of no-see-me force field…

Many years ago, she had told him that when she tapped into current she could dye herself blue, wrap herself in bells, and waltz naked through Grand Central Terminal at rush hour without anyone noticing her. He had believed it then. He knew it for a fact now. Not that she had ever actually done that particular—at least, he didn’t think she had.

Sergei also suspected that, despite knowing perhaps five words in Italian, his partner would have no trouble at all finding an ATM, buying coffee, and possibly finding their missing contact while she was at it. Invisible to the casual eye did not mean incapable. Far from it. He had told Andre that he was along because he was the one with the language skills. The truth was…

Sergei raked one hand through his hair, impatient with himself. The truth was that their…relationship, for lack of a more accurate word, was far too fragile for her to be out of his sight for very long. Or him, hers.

Not that he had any real worries about her being wooed and pursued by the stereotypical dashing Italian loverboy, but he still wasn’t about to let her go haring off on her own. Not until they’d actually gotten past this damned push-me-pull-you thing they’d fallen into. The past few months had been hellish. First her getting shot, and recovering—it had been okay then; taking it slow, discovering the sweetness of her mouth, the pleasure in just being able to hold her while she rested. But the moment she was back on her feet, everything went sour.

His fault. He knew that. He’d spent so many years in stasis, emotionally. Intentionally. Trying to avoid repeating the one impossible mistake that had driven him from the Silence. And still she’d managed to get under his skin. Into his heart in a way that couldn’t be safely packaged up by “friend,” or even “partner.”

Time for denial is over, old man. Over, gone, kaput.

He was hoping that this trip, away from the preexisting patterns their partnership fell into, they would be able to stop overthinking everything and just feel. For good or ill, but the fiddling about was going to kill him. And he didn’t think she was doing much better.

Feeling his shoulders start to tense up he forced them down, extending and flexing his fingers toward the ground, trying to remember the basic grounding exercises Wren had taught him back in the earliest days of their working relationship. Grounding was essential to a Talent, who routinely drew the magical essence from electricity and sent it back out again through their bodies. For him, it was a way to destress, forcing the anxiety out of his pores the way Wren said she handled current.

And thank God she’d been able to handle it on the plane, he thought, not for the first time. In the airport, he’d only been worried that they would be delayed if something blew up spectacularly, or if she sent the airport into a blackout. In a plane…

But he had kept his fears tightly to himself, and she’d managed admirably. Although he suspected that the entertainment system going on the blink two-thirds of the way through the movie had been her fault.

He’d seen the film before, anyway.

“Where are you, Ms. Fabrizio?” he asked the airport at large. “I don’t like it when things go wrong this early in the plan.” A good Handler prepared his agents for all probabilities. The information Andre had given them was far sketchier than he had let on to Wren, and not up to the old man’s standards, as Sergei remembered them. So it was time for him to stop being Sergei the businessman, or even Sergei the Retriever’s partner, and become the Handler. Keep control. Maintain confidence in the active agent.

Checking his watch only informed him that he’d forgotten to change it when they got on the plane. Unfastening the slender gold timepiece from his wrist, he moved the hands forward, all the while looking around to see if there was anyone who looked like they might be looking for them. Or, better yet, holding up a sign that said Silence Operatives, Report Here.

He didn’t think they were going to get that lucky.

By the time Wren returned, balancing two small paper cups and a handful of sugar packets, he knew they weren’t going to be lucky at all.

“Did we get stood up?”

“Looks that way.” He took the smaller cup from her, took off the lid and dumped four packets in without tasting it first. Wren, more cautious, sipped hers delicately, then reached over and snagged two unopened packets out of his hand.

“That’ll put hair on your everything,” she said, stirring the sugar granules until they dissolved and then trying it again. “Oh yeah. Way better. So?”

“So?” Maybe he was more jet-lagged than he thought, but he’d lost track of what she was talking about. Perhaps he should have gotten two coffees.