When the demon tries to get out, he can't budge the door, and he panics, whirling around to face the Agent standing there, watching him with no expression whatsoever on his face.
"Are you going to come quietly?" SA-7 asks, in Tantarian, which is a weird experience for Sage—people tend to think in their native languages, so his words come through the Ear in English even though they come out of his mouth in the demon's language.
The demon insults him—a cultural idiom Sage doesn't quite get that translates as something to do with pimples and a rabbit. SA-7 finds it amusing, but not so amusing that he doesn't draw his gun and take casual aim at the demon's midsection.
Now it's the demon's turn to laugh. "Stupid boy," it hisses. "You can't kill my kind with your primitive weapon."
The gun has a built-in silencer, and between that and the raucous crowd noise in the bar beyond the door, no one hears the shots. Vile yellow blood—she assumes it's blood, though it's about the consistency of a Frappuccino—erupts from the demon's stomach, and he gurgles in shock and pain, flying back against the wall and sliding down.
SA-7 steps over to him. "Tarium alloy bullets," he tells the dying creature. "We've been working on them for weeks while you've been eating the livers and spleens of humans in this area." He reaches down and plucks the slip of paper he'd given the demon at the piano from its twitching hand.
Sage catches a glimpse of it: something in the Agent's handwriting that looks more like an equation than a sentence, but his mind reads it to her: the demon's Miranda rights, in Tantarian.
"It's your own fault for resisting arrest," the Agent says.
The demon makes a pathetic croaking noise and shudders, its last breath rattling. As it dies the seams of the skin suit rupture and more of the yellow ooze floods out, sticky and steaming in the half-darkness. She hears the Agent’s noise of disgust—Tantarian blood apparently stinks like rotting potatoes, and for someone with an ultra-sensitive nose she’s sure it’s godawful.
She sighs, and while the Agent switches off the camera, she notifies the team already en route that they need acid-proof gloves and poly-vinyl sheeting…and a carpet steamer, and a lot of Lysol. Sage is forever dispatching cleanup crews to deal with the aftermath of SA-7's seeming inability to bring back a live suspect.
Sometimes Sage wonders if Sara had any idea just what he was really like, if she would still be so enamored of him. She claims he's a big teddy bear underneath the hard shell, and Rowan's love for him would seem to confirm that, but how many teddy bears carry six guns at once and feel absolutely no remorse for killing another living being? He views his quarry as beneath him, even the human suspects, as if by following whatever code he lives by—not to be confused with Agency regulations—makes him better than the rest of them, even better than his own species. She's heard that other vampires hate him, that he has many enemies among them.
But Sage has found that Sara is an impeccable judge of people, and even though Sage wants to think she's blinded by her obvious attraction to the vampire, she's never been wrong that Sage is aware of. Sara is her only real friend anymore, and she vouches for Adams, so Sage tries to believe in him, all evidence to the contrary.
A teddy bear with fangs.
There's also the fact that he's still on the Pentecost case, and refuses to let it go cold even though after the drug lab was destroyed no new evidence has surfaced to lead them to the masterminds behind it all. The Eyes have said that there's definitely something coming, that Pentecost isn't over, but that its masters are lying in wait. Still, a total lack of evidence means that the Agency wants to put it aside. SA-7 won't. He's got two Agents on it at all times. She's heard him say that nobody kills his people, nobody invades his home and fucks with his town, without paying the price. He will pop a cap in someone he feels is an evildoer without batting an eye, but when it comes to those he has pledged himself to defend, he is fiercely protective, a force of nature unlike any she's ever seen.
Absolutely terrifying.
And she's never wanted to have sex with someone so badly in her life.
Cookies. Sage thinks of cookies. Fudge crinkles. Those almost-ebony rounds of dough flavored with black cocoa and balsamic vinegar; Rowan had gone into orgasmic rapture over those, and so had Sara. The Elf doesn't eat much chocolate, but there had been a few recipes of hers that he had loved almost obscenely. He, too, is almost disgustingly good-looking, though a bit girly for Sage, who prefers a more muscular breed and has never been into long hair.
The ears are pretty hot, though.
A window pops up on her console: an IM from Sara.
"Want to meet for dinner after shift?" the Witch asks.
"Sure. I'm off at 3, let's say 3:30 in the upper lounge?"
"Good plan. See you then. Did he get the Tantarian?"
"Yellow goop everywhere."
"Dumb bastard. See you later."
SA-7 is on his way back to the base now, with a jar of the demon's blood to analyze for any anomalous substances that would explain why he was feeding so heavily before he died. Tantarians feed off livers, mostly, but if they are nutrient deficient they swallow spleens and gallbladders of their victims, fresh and warm while the victim is still alive. Some Tantarians, like some vampires, have found ways to fulfill their needs without harming anyone, and thus are allowed to live in the city under a monitored but mostly unrestricted lifestyle. There is always some asshole that feels like he is above the law.
Speaking of which: [SA-7, you're expected in Rowan's quarters tonight as soon as you're presentable. I'm coding off for the shift if you don't need anything else.]
[Actually, Sage…when you code off would you mind coming down to the Armory for a moment? There's something I need to discuss with you.]
Alarmed, she agrees, and goes through her nightly ritual of powering down the console and unplugging herself from the Ear. The process has multiple steps, and if she skips one she could end up halfway wired in all night, broadcasting her dreams all over the building. Again. She is much more careful now.
By the time she makes it down to the Armory, he is busy snapping his weapons back into their slots in one of several drawers. The anti-Tantarian bullets go into a separate drawer for experimental and one-time-use ammo. He’ll file a report on their efficacy so the blend of metals can be altered to work faster, fire better, or whatever.
"What can I do for you?" she asks, swallowing her nervousness. She has no idea what to expect. He’s never asked to speak to her before outside the strictly official arena of his office or the Floor.
He lifts his eyes, and their color again startles her: she'd never seen a man with such jewel-blue eyes, particularly in combination with jet-black hair. According to Sara all vampires have blue eyes—the way they change is a giveaway that they aren’t human, if you know what to look for. At times they are almost neon, when he is angry they turn a frosted silver, and every once in a while they are clouded and grey like the sea beneath a storm. Tonight, they are a self-satisfied sapphire, the kind of color she suspects had half of the young Irish of New York on its knees in front of him for centuries.
His fingers curve and turn clips of ammunition in his hands with an almost sensual delight, and she tries not to watch, or rather, tries not to watch and get hot.
“You’ve been an Ear for six months as of this week,” he reminds her. “As your partner and the senior Agent I’m required to file an evaluation of our work together, which I’ll be doing on Friday.” He continues his task, producing guns and knives from places she can’t even begin to pinpoint. “I wanted you to know I’ve been very pleased with your progress thus far, and my report will reflect that.”
She’s listening, and watching, and her psychic senses are going into overdrive just being around him—he’s tightly shielded, but something about him is just so…wrong, to her mind, a low-level field of danger and darkness, something predatory out of nightmare, kept under a fist of control but lurking there, in wait, a panther hiding behind a stand o
f brush.
And he’s gorgeous, which makes it so much worse. She doesn’t want to be attracted to something like him, but who could help it? Even without the coat and the weapons, she can see his muscles beneath the tight black Stella Blue concert t-shirt, the confidence in his walk, the absolutely perfect shape of his body. If he weren’t a vampire he’d be generically good-looking in an underwear-model sort of way and probably not that interesting, but that aura pushes him over the edge, draws everyone in no matter where their preferences lie.
Even better, he’s fully aware of that fact and uses his effect on people to his advantage. She wants very badly to hate him.
“So, that in mind, is there anything you’d like to bring up about our interactions, specifically problems you have with my end of things? Our transmission time is excellent, even with the software glitches we’ve been having since the upgrade, but if there’s anything else you’d like to comment on, please do—even if it’s something you think of later.”
“Okay,” she replies, her mind abruptly going blank. The only thing she can think of to ask is, “Why did you need to see me down here?”
He looks her up and down, and she blushes even though there’s no innuendo in the gaze whatsoever. The only comforting thing about him is that he’s gay. She doesn’t have to worry about him trying anything—not that he would. If he were going to hit on a woman she would bet it would be Sara, who has confidence, a sense of humor, and fantastic breasts. Sage has always thought of herself as very ordinary, especially now that she doesn’t bake anymore. The one remarkable thing about her is gone.
Finally, he says, “I was wondering if you had baked anything since Pentecost.”
“Um…no…but you don’t eat, do you?”
“It’s not about me. It’s about you being a fully functioning member of my team. I only work with the best, and if there’s something you need help with—if you need someone to talk to about what happened—I can get you in to see one of the counselors. I know you had sessions just after, but I suspect you haven’t been in a while.”
Cheesecake. Graham cracker crust, with a touch of cinnamon, a tart cherry topping—
“Sage?”
“Sorry,” she mutters. “I’m kind of spaced out. No, I haven’t been back to Dr. Sharma. I don’t really need to, I’m fine.”
He raises an eyebrow. She takes a step back involuntarily.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me.” He speaks quietly, even though there’s no one around, and she has to appreciate his sincerity.
“I can’t help it,” she blurts out. “I mean…I mean, look at you, and you’re…”
He actually smiles—she can’t remember ever seeing him do that before. It makes him look younger and a lot more human. He graciously ignores her stammered words, and says, “I was hoping I could hire you.”
“Um…the huh?”
“Sara may have already mentioned this to you, but Rowan and I are having a sort of commitment ceremony on the Spring Equinox.”
“You’re getting married?”
“No, not exactly. Elves don’t really have marriage in the traditional human sense. It’s more like a semi-open handfasting.”
She nods. That she can understand. “Okay.”
“Rowan’s been having a…hard time, lately, since the kidnapping and his daughter’s death. I’m hoping that a gathering of all his friends and chosen family will help that. The ceremony itself is just us and a couple of witnesses, but there's a party afterward. It’ll be thirty people, maximum, in one of the big meeting rooms upstairs. Nothing formal—but we need a cake.”
He stops talking and stares at her, and it takes her a moment to get it. Fear grips her stomach. “I don’t know…”
“Please, Sage. There’s no one else here who can bake like you, especially given the dietary restrictions Rowan has. Besides, he loves your work. It’s been so long since he had anything of yours he’d probably trade you a dozen orgasms for a dozen cookies. And believe me, it’d be worth your while.”
“So, you…you want me to bake you a wedding cake. Er, commitment cake. When I haven’t baked anything in almost a year.”
“I have the utmost confidence in you.” He looks at her keenly. “I ask only that you have some in yourself.”
“I…I’m not sure. I mean, I’d like to, but…would they let me use the kitchen? And…I’d have to special order some stuff, and…”
“I’ve already cleared it with Chef Didier. You have full run of the kitchen and all you need to do is make a list of what you need." He smiles again, this time more gently. “They miss you, in Food Service.”
“Are you saying I should go back?”
He leans back against the wall of weapons drawers, arms crossed, and a flicker of something—memory, she thinks—crosses his face. “You may find this hard to believe, Sage, but…I know what you’re going through. I know what it’s like to feel you have a calling, something to offer the world, and then set it aside out of grief. To have something you once loved bound up in pain and regret and be afraid that taking it up again will lead to more. But what you do, Sage, is an art. You may not think so, but it is. And art exists to transform emotion. It can change the world if you let it.”
She tries to find somewhere else to focus her eyes, but he is sucking up her attention into the irresistible vortex of his presence. “I don’t think cake can change the world.”
“Your cupcakes almost destroyed this base.” He shrugs. “A lot of lives were changed that day. And no, not all for the better, but is that really how you want to leave things? Do you want your final act as a baker to be unwittingly hurting people?”
“It…it wasn’t my fault,” she whispers, tears suddenly flooding her eyes. “I didn’t know.”
His voice softens too, and he leans closer to her. “Of course not. But you believe it was. How long are you going to let this eat at you, and deny everything you have to give?”
Damn it, she isn’t going to cry, not in front of him, not in the Armory of all places. She manages to meet his eyes, and amazingly, she can see it—he does know what she is feeling. There is genuine empathy there, the most unguarded expression she’s ever seen him wear, and for the first time it occurs to her to wonder about his past, about what might have happened to him in the far-back reaches of history that has brought him here.
“Just think it over,” he says, leaving her side to fetch his jacket from a hook on the wall. “Let me know by Friday if you can. I know it would mean a lot to Rowan.” As he pushes open the Armory door, he pauses and says back over his shoulder, “And I didn’t mention this, but: I’ll pay you for the work.”
The only thing she can think to say is, “How much?”
He doesn’t even blink. “$1,000.”
“A thousand dollars? But the ingredients and stuff would be provided by Food Service! You could get a professional baker for that much!”
He gives her a fluid shrug. “It’s a specialized item, and as far as I’m concerned you are a professional. Besides, what am I going to spend it on, four-star restaurants and anti-aging cream? I’ll see you tomorrow night, Sage.”
*****
And that is how, three weeks later, Sage finds herself in the Agency kitchen, where she hasn’t set foot since the previous summer, tasting and stirring espresso-flavored filling for a vegan not-exactly-a-wedding cake for an Elf and a vampire’s not-exactly-a-wedding, while at her side, in a shortening-smeared Ramones t-shirt, that exact vampire is measuring out flour into the Agency's huge Hobart standing mixer.
The day hadn't started well at all. Since Sage left her old position, the Agency had been through three lead bakers. The first one had been fired after a week for saying a batch of brownies was vegan when in fact it contained both milk and eggs, which resulted in Rowan spending a night with his head in the toilet and SA-7 threatening to commit several felonies. The second had quit for unspecified reasons. The third, Mark, was still there, and was as big a cock as everyone said. He was ar
rogant, sexist, and his talent was pedestrian at best. The Elf had taken one bite of his bread and started sending his lover out to Whole Foods' bakery. Sage had seen trays of Mark's muffins going uneaten in the cafeteria, and secretly, it made her smile.
It was far less easy to smile, however, with him hovering over her in the kitchens while she made the first of what would turn out to be three practice cakes for the big event. He kept reminding her that she was supposed to clean up after herself, and dropped hints about Pentecost being all her fault at least once an hour. She'd been unable to concentrate, and thus her first cake had been inedible. The second had been better, but had still sunk in the center—her cakes never did that.
That was four days ago, and now, the night before the party, he is at it again, and she has to get this one right. There are frosting and filling to make, decorations to create, and four individual cakes to get in and out of the oven. The design isn't elaborate, and the recipes are familiar, but Mark's meddling is making her want to dump an entire bowl of batter over his head and then beat him with a wooden spoon until it breaks in half.
The Agency, Volume II Page 20
