Curse the Dark. Laura Anne Gilman

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      “What do you mean, mellow out? She’s never been out of the country before, you know.” P.B. bit back a growl, feeling his ears go flat against his head in agitation. The water fountain against the far wall made a metallic plinking noise as drops fell, turning wheels and gears that powered the ceiling fan circling lazily overhead. Through the one window the sounds of midday traffic came through, sounding farther away than it actually was.

      “I mean, relax, okay? Genevieve’s a big girl. She knows how to take care of herself. And anyway, she went to Vancouver last year.”

      P.B. waved a clawed paw in dismissal. “Vancouver. Pfffhah. Canada. That’s not a real border. And they speak English there. Mostly. They do, don’t they? Yeah, ’cause they filmed X-Files there. And Forever Knight. And SG-1.”

      “You watch way too much TV.”

      “Oh yeah, ’cause there’s so much else in my life that needs to be doing. Gimme a break. Cable is all that makes Western civilization worthwhile.”

      The demon was pacing back and forth in the open area of Lee’s studio, tapping his claws together in a way that Wren had once told Lee indicated extreme emotional agitation. So far, the lanky artist had been forced to redirect P.B. at least once, when his pacing path came too close to the work in progress, a surprisingly delicate apple tree, four feet high and made entirely of copper and pewter. Sergei had promised him a show if he could come up with works smaller than his usual garden installments of bronze and steel, and Lee rather thought this piece was the start of that show. Be damned if he’d let some hyper-tense fatae screw it up by waving an arm in the wrong place.

      “What’s really bothering you? The fact that she’s out of the country—or the fact that Didier’s with her?”

      P.B. stopped, turned, and stared at Lee. While the human was glad that he’d gotten the demon’s attention, having those dark red eyes stare at him was…unnerving. He mentally ratcheted his opinion of their mutual friend up from “brave but crazy” to “brave but insane” for describing the fatae in front of him as “adorable.” Even if she had added “like a rabid mongoose” to that.

      “You think—that I—I could…” He finally spluttered down, and returned to glaring at the Talent. “It’s not that I don’t like the guy, okay? ’Cause, well, I don’t. Much. Okay, he’s okay for a human. And Wren loves him, even if she’s way too freaked by the whole concept of a relationship to admit it—”

      Lee did a mild second take at that bit of information. He had noticed that things seemed a little more tense around the partners than before, but hadn’t realized they were heading in that direction. Suddenly, a few things made a little more sense. He made a mental note to discuss that turn of events with his wife, once he got rid of his surprise guest.

      “No, the fact that her fataephobic partner is with her is…actually reassuring. In that if I’m not there to look out for her he will, as much as his wussy human reflexes allow him to. If the Council comes gunning for her, ’cause you know they will, they’ve got their people everywhere. But, see, I could do it better. But did they ask me? No! All I get is ‘P.B., gotta go, watch the apartment, willya?’ Like I was some kind of plant-watering petsitter.”

      “Oh for…” Suddenly Lee had had it with the demon’s self-pity party. The bastard was lonely—which explained why he’d made this unexpected drop-in to the human’s studio only a day after the two had left—and he just had to get the hell over it. “That’s not what they asked you to do at all.”

      P.B. threw his compact body onto the only other chair in the room, a brown leather recliner that must have seen better decades, and was in the studio as a stopping point on its way to the dump. A disconsolate snarl rose from his throat, and Lee’s skin prickled. Then the noise stopped, as though P.B. had suddenly realized it was coming from him, and the demon sighed instead, a remarkably human sound. “Yeah, I know. But it felt like that. They get to go off and do exciting things, and I’m stuck behind. Ignoring the whole ‘how the hell could you get on a plane’ thing ’cause yeah, know that, live that. It sucks living in a human world, you know that?”

      Demons, unlike any of the other known fatae races, were created—according to one story, somewhere back in the mists of magic, a mad Talent had manipulated several races into creating what he had thought would be an interesting subspecies of servant. Over the generations since then the bloodline had gone in several different directions as the parent genes reasserted themselves, but they were all immediately recognizable by their blood-red eyes. The Cosa referred to them all collectively as “demon,” with all the implicit emotional and psycho logical baggage attached.

      “I know.” Being a Talent was no picnic either, even if he only used current to weld his sculptures. The fact that he had married outside of the Cosa was a constant source of amazement to all concerned; it was rare to find a Null that you could tell about magic, much less admit that you used it on a regular basis.

      Maybe that was why Wren and Sergei felt, once he got over the shock, like such an obvious idea. They already knew each other’s secrets, after all. After Wren, even the most fascinating socialite on the Manhattan art scene was probably a bit…tame.

      “Look, P.B., the truth is I know for a fact that Wren asked you to do something really important, because she asked me to be your backup. So take that for what it’s worth—you’re point person, and I’m office support. How’s that supposed to make me feel?”

      P.B. made a rude, wet noise through his nose. “Relieved?”

      Lee laughed at that. Point, made and well taken. His reputation for noninvolvement in Cosa affairs was widely known. He heard more gossip that way. And nobody expected him to actually act on any of it. Which meant he could—when he chose to.

      “So, what have you heard?” P.B. leaned forward, his chin resting on the pads of his hands—claws now semi-sheathed—and looking unnervingly like a petite, white-fur-covered version of Rodin’s “The Thinker.”

      Lee leaned back in his own chair, legs the length of P.B.’s entire body stretched out in front of him. “The gossip mills have been churning,” he admitted. “It’s mostly low-level stuff, no more boneheaded moves like they did last spring, locking down anyone who bucked them, Mage or not. But I don’t think they’ve backed off. That’s not Council style, much as those bastards have any.

      “Stuff СКАЧАТЬ