Tricks of the Trade

by Laura Anne Gilman

  Benjamin Venec had no intention of dying.

  *bonita* He didn’t mean to call her that, had meant to use her last name, or even her usual nickname, but it slipped out. He was more tired than he wanted to think about, if his control was that shaky.

  *okay?* Her response was immediate, as though she’d been on hold for however long the deal-making had taken. Maybe she had.

  *i’m fine. we have a solution for everyone’s problems* If they could pull this off. He rather thought they could, though. All it would require was some fast talking, and confidence. *open up*

  *open up* Venec demanded, and I did so without hesitation: whatever doubts I might have about Bonnie and Ben didn’t exist when Big Dog Venec was talking. That was interesting, and good to know, and something we were going to have to look at, when there was some downtime. But for now I was taking in the details he was firing at me faster than pings could keep up, and grinning probably like a madwoman as the shape of his plan unfolded. Stosser had been right: Benjamin Venec was an evil, twisted man.

  The connection closed with a snap—less by intent than, I suspected, because our energy ran out; the Merge might make the connection instinctive and inevitable, but it was also an exhausting use of current. But I had enough.

  “Jacob Wells, I have been authorized to offer you a choice. Either you accept the consequences of your actions, and exchange yourself as per the terms of your original agreement… The one that you broke, with full intent, and knowledge of the consequences…”

  I paused, letting him take that in, then continued, “…or we will give your psychic scent to a mischief imp with the tenacity of a bulldog and the sense of humor of, well, a mischief imp. It will make you its personal pet project, plucking bits of dignity and power from you at whim, and turning everything you touch into shit, just for its own amusement, for the rest of your natural life.”

  The client blanched, and even Nick looked a little uneasy. It was a crap choice we were giving the guy: life as an inanimate object, or being the butt of a mischief imp. I figured sweetening the pot to make him jump our way wouldn’t hurt.

  “If you choose the latter,” I said, as though only just thinking of it, “you would remain within the reach of human agencies. Meaning that your misuse of current to imprison innocent lives would come under the purveyance of the Mage Council.”

  It wouldn’t, actually. They’d be pissed, maybe, but he was a Null, and the people imprisoned were Null, and the Council therefore wouldn’t give a damn. But Wells had dabbled without doing his homework, and so he didn’t know that.

  I wish I could say I felt bad about lying to him. I didn’t. I felt bad about that, though.

  “Decide now,” Nick said, resting a not-meant-to-be-comforting hand on his shoulder. “Your choices are waiting.”

  “If it was me,” I said, switching back into the kind-and-thoughtful mode I’d learned at J’s knee, “I’d go with inanimate. Much more…restful, that way. And who knows, maybe you’ll find something to trade yourself out of there with, after a few decades. God knows, it’s got to be better than having the imp after you—and risking the Old One coming after you again, pissed off because you hadn’t paid up.”

  The Old One wouldn’t; the terms had been satisfied. Again, Wells didn’t know that, and in his own mind, of course someone would be out for every bit he could claim, because that’s what he would do.

  I wondered, briefly, watching the calculations cross his face, what the payment due had been. Somehow I didn’t see the Old One, or whatever was left of it, being interested in coin, gold or otherwise.

  The sweat that broke on his skin when I mentioned the unpaid obligation suggested it wasn’t something I wanted to know about.

  “All right.” His voice practically squeaked with frustration and anger. “All right, I agree.”

  “To…?”

  The words needed to be said.

  “I accept the terms of your offer,” he said, spitting out the traditional wording with little drops of venom.

  And like that, he was gone.

  And so was the lurking presence in the stone beneath us.

  There wasn’t a celebratory wrap-up party for this case. Stosser had taken the dagger and the watch, carefully wrapped and protected, off to some bigwig Council magefest, to see if they could find a way to return them to human form. Sharon had, at his request, gone with him; I had a feeling, like it or not, she was going to learn how to deal with the Council. Better her than me; she could tell when they were lying, while I just had to assume they always were. Nifty was off getting some bite marks treated—I didn’t ask; he’d had a really bad year, medically speaking—and Lou and Pietr and Nick all seemed to share my slightly depressed, disconcerted mood. Yeah, we’d won, we’d closed the case, but the things we’d had to do…

  The world was messy. Sometimes, when you held something up to the light…you had no choice but to clean it up, too, so nobody else stepped in it. That was a good thing, right?

  “There was a message for you, by the way,” Lou said, pulling a piece of paper off the message tree and waving it at me when I wandered through the break room looking for I-didn’t-know-what. “Some woman called, said you were in luck, there was a vacancy. You’re supposed to stop by when you can.”

  “You getting a new place?” Nick raised himself up off the sofa enough to look at me. “Aw, I liked your apartment.”

  “It was a little too noisy for me,” I said, taking the paper from Lou’s hand. “We’ll see how this place does.”

  Pietr just smiled up at the ceiling, a kind of sad, nostalgic smile, like he knew he wasn’t going to get any more invites to stay over, in the new place. Instinctively, I reached out—and was met by a hard, impenetrable surface. Huh.

  “I’ll catch you guys tomorrow,” I said. “Gotta go see a man about a wall.”

  I found him exactly where, no magic involved, I’d known he would be: on the stoop of my soon-to-be-old apartment building. He didn’t look up when I stopped in front of him, so I sat down beside him, feeling the cool brick soak through my pants and numb my ass.

  There were any of a dozen things I could have said, from the funny to the horrifyingly blunt, from the excruciatingly personal to the offhandedly polite. What came out was: “Would you really have given Wells to the imp, if he’d balked?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” I echoed.

  Of course he would have. Benjamin Venec didn’t bluff—or if he did, and you called him on it, he followed through, which was probably the same thing as not bluffing.

  If he had any doubts about what we’d done, about where the high ground was, and where the quicksand waited, he didn’t show it.

  Dealing with Venec on a daily basis was never going to be a cakewalk. It would, in fact, be the antithesis of everything I’d ever looked for in a relationship: awkward, frustrating, complicated, and with the potential for big ugly meltdowns on a regular basis if we didn’t watch what we were doing. And I didn’t even know where half of his sore spots and hot buttons were. Hell, I probably didn’t even know a quarter of them yet, Merge or no Merge.

  But the thought of walking away, of cutting him out of my life, of him cutting me out… It left an ache larger than anything I’d ever felt, even worse than when Zaki died, even worse than my first and worst broken heart combined. Like there was a chunk of my soul that had gone walkabout, and left a stone in its place.

  “You shut me out. Today, I mean. Walls back up.”

  “You found me, anyway.”

  “You weren’t exactly trying to hide.” I gestured behind me. “I live here, had to come back sooner or later.”

  He nodded. “Exactly.”

  Great. Now he was giving me Zen koans to suck on. I opened my mouth to ask him why he was making things so damned difficult, when we’d gotten past that, when he reached out and put his unbandaged arm around my shoulders, pulling me into what might have, to an outsider, looked like a casual, if uncomfortable, embr
ace.

  I didn’t resist; his arm was at an awkward angle at my throat, but it felt okay, and I was afraid that if I said or did the wrong thing, he’d pull away again, disappear behind even higher walls.

  “You did well this week,” he said. “All of you. Two cases at once, both tied up, wrongdoers punished…”

  “Wrongs left wronged,” I said, finishing the sentence.

  “Yeah. Well. That’s not our job, is it? We’re not here to save the world, not even our corner of it. Just to identify, isolate, and incriminate the bad guys.”

  He’d managed to put a finger on exactly the sore point. “What we did went beyond that, though. Forcing Wells to make the choice he made…it went way beyond our charter, such as it is. And it…wasn’t very moral.”

  “No. Not particularly. It was coercion, justified only by the fact that that bastard had imprisoned his wife and son for years, and deserved to be punished.” Ben exhaled, his scent thicker in my nostrils than a second before, the smell of ash and dark rum and clean male sweat. “We gave him the choice of what that punishment would be.”

  His arm at my neck felt a little like a choke hold now, but I couldn’t bring myself to wiggle out of it, even a little. There’s a physical metaphor for you, huh?

  “We’re not supposed to be the judge or jury. Just the investigators.”

  “I know. But…” His arm relaxed a little, sliding down to rest around my shoulders. “Circumstances—and Ian’s grandstanding little stunt—put us in a position where we had no choice. Let him carry the guilt for that, okay?”

  I considered the suggestion.

  I wanted to argue with his argument, find the hole that J would have found, turn it back on him and somehow make it all black-and-white again, good guys and bad guys. I couldn’t. J wouldn’t approve—he was all about standing on your own feet and owning your own actions, but J…hadn’t ever been here. Or if he had, he’d made different decisions.

  He was a different person.

  I’d taken this job because I needed the money, and as an intellectual challenge, but also as a way to put myself to good use, to do something that I felt strongly about. I still felt that way, still believed in the cause. Maybe even more so, now. The world we’re in isn’t black-and-white, or if it is, that’s only for Council, people who take themselves out of the scrum. Down here, it’s always been shades of gray…and I’m living—working—smack in the middle of it. That grayness was bound to rub off onto us, sooner or later.

  My turn to exhale, and I put my entire body into it. Next to me, I felt Ben’s body shake a little with laughter. All right, maybe it had been a smidge overly dramatic.

  “Don’t shut me out,” I said. I meant to add “we work well with it—it made this case possible to close,” or maybe, “I don’t mind feeling you always rubbing along the edge of my awareness…we’ll figure it out as we go along,” or possibly, “I kind of like knowing that you’re there.” But I didn’t say any of that, because he turned his head and shifted his arm again, and then his lips touched mine, and I inhaled the scent of warm flesh and a faint hint of aftershave, and felt the rasp of a soft tongue and my fingers were tangled in that dark shag of curls, pulling his mouth harder against mine, and anything I was going to say went purely to hell.

  And then my fingers unclenched and his arm fell away, and there was space to breathe between us.

  The walls were still up. But I could see where the outline of a door was etched; one that swung both ways. I touched my fingers to his mouth, not sure if it was me, or him who was trembling, and smiled, and got up and went up the stairs, leaving him sitting there alone.

  Shades of gray. We’d figure this out.

  TRICKS OF THE TRADE

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-8164-6

  Copyright © 2011 by Laura Anne Gilman

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