Staying Dead. Laura Anne Gilman

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      Staying Dead

      Laura Anne Gilman

      

www.mirabooks.co.uk

      For Mom and Dad, of course.

      And for Mir and ElaineMc,

       who have some small blame in all this…

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Because no writer works alone,

       no matter what it feels like at 3:00 a.m.,

       I need to praise and thank the following people:

      Jennifer Jackson (agent) and

       Mary-Theresa Hussey (editor). Finestkind.

      Peter, who understood that there was something I

       needed to do, and gave me the space to get it done.

      The Cross-Genre Abuse Group, for smacking this

       around the room more than a few times.

      eluki, who said “yes” to my kids before anyone else,

       and Dana and Lynn, all of whom took time out

       to pay forward.

      The folk in my newsgroup who came up with the info

       when I needed it (and the Hounds, who howl on cue).

      James, who told me to shut up and get back to work.

      Marina Frants, who taught me all sorts of lovely Russian

       phrases…some of which even made it into the book.

      To you all, if I haven’t said it recently,

      grazie. Molto grazie.

      The Mississippi’s mighty, but it starts in Minnesota

       At a place where you could walk across

       with five steps down…

      —Indigo Girls

       “Ghost”

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      one

      “Hey, lady! Move it or lose it!”

      The cyclist sped past her, a blur of expensive aluminum, narrow wheels and Lycra-clad body topped by a screaming-orange helmet. He—she? it?—hopped off the curb and dove into the light traffic moving up Madison Avenue, almost slamming into a cab that was cruising around the opposite corner looking for an early-morning fare. The cabbie slammed on the brakes and the horn at the same time, and the bike messenger made a rude gesture as he wove in and out of the middle of the street, heading downtown.

      “Oh, for a stick to spoke his wheels,” Wren said wistfully, staring after the cyclist with annoyance. The man standing next to her smothered a surprised burst of laughter. Wren blinked. She hadn’t been kidding; bicycle messengers were a menace.

      Dismissing the incident with the single-minded focus she brought to every job, Wren turned her attention back to the building in front of her; the reason she was standing out on the corner at this ungodly hour of the a.m. on a Monday. What terrible sin had she committed in a past life, to get all the morning gigs in this life? She made a soft, snorting noise, amused at her own indignation. At least it was a pretty morning as those things went.

      In fact, Manhattan in the spring was a pretty decent place to be. Winter meant slush and biting winds, while summer had a range of heat-induced smells that ranged from disgusting to putrid. You could live in the city then, but you generally didn’t like it. But spring, she thought, spring was the time to be here. The sun was warming up, the breeze was cool, and people were in the mood to smile at each other. Even bad days had an edge of promise to them.

      But right now, spring weather aside, Wren couldn’t find a damn thing to be happy about. Seven in the morning was way too early, and the job that had sounded like quick and easy money at first was rapidly going deep into the proverbial shitter. She was going to have to do some actual work for her paycheck on this one.

      “Maybe that will teach you to answer the phone before six,” she said out loud.

      “Excuse me?”

      Rafe, the guard who had been detailed to “help” her, had a cute little wrinkle between his eyebrows, totally spoiling his until-now perfect Little RentACop look.

      “Nothing. Never mind.” Don’t talk to yourself in front of civilians, Valere. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. Even if she had ignored the phone’s ringing two hours ago, before either she or the sun had thought about getting up, the sound of Sergei’s voice on the machine would have made her pick the receiver up. She might have the skills that people paid for, but her partner was the one with a nose for jobs that was slowly but surely making them moderately well-off, if not obscenely wealthy. Only a fool would pass up a call from someone like that, no matter what the time.

      And while Wren Valere was many things, a fool had never been one of them.

      “Rafe? Can you go get me a refill of water?” she asked, handing him the plastic sports bottle she had been holding. He wasn’t thrilled at being an errand boy, she could tell, but his orders had been explicit. Give Ms. Valere all the help she needed. Type of help not specified. So he went.

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