Staying Dead by Laura Anne Gilman Read Free Book Online

Last time she dealt with a wizzart, he’d tried to throw her over a cliff.
    â€œNice. And the Council?”
    Dangerous or not, Wren would take a wizzart over a Council mage any day. Mages—cold, calculating bastards that they were—made her feel like she needed to take a bath after talking to one. And scrub hard.
    â€œStreet rumor is he stiffed ’em once, but managed to squirm out of retribution. No word on how, and believe you me there are folks who want to know that little trick, if it’s true.” The demon extended one three-inch-long claw and dug into the thick white fur on his neck, sighing in satisfaction when he hit the itch.
    Wren watched in amusement. P.B. looked like an escapee from some demented toy shop, four feet of thick white fur and button-black nose offset by four sets of lethal claws and a voice that could scrape tar off the highway. But if the initial impression was of a cuddly bear, it was his eyes that were the giveaway to his true nature: oversized and pale red, with pupils that were slitted like a cat’s. Occasionally, he would don a hat and trench coat, which made him look like a diminutive Cold War-era spy, but more often than not he wore a pair of jeans, and not much else. She didn’t ask how he managed to get around in public like that without, as far as she could tell, the slightest bit of Talent beyond his own demon nature, and he didn’t volunteer the information. Professional courtesy, such as it was.
    â€œThat it?” she asked, indicating the material.
    He nodded. “That’s it.”
    â€œGreat.” Her tolerance level had reached its breaking point and she was starting to get a headache. “Sergei will do the usual deposit. Now get out.” She was already reaching for the kitchen phone, her back turned to him when she added, “And leave the rest of the pizza.”
    â€œSpoilsport,” he muttered, but left the box untouched. He also left the window open, in petty retaliation, and the sounds of an argument from the apartment below floated up to her over the pad-clatter of his clawed feet on the fire escape.
    A tenor: voice spoiled and high-pitched by anger. “And another thing, I don’t like the tone of your voice!”
    Oh wonderful. The couple in 1B were on that rant again. She was convinced the landlord paid them to leave their apartment whenever prospective tenants looked at a place. That had been the last time she hadn’t heard them. They were either arguing, or having sex. And one rather memorable morning, they had managed to do both.
    Wren held the phone at arm’s length, dialing Sergei’s number with her thumb as she leaned backward to shut the window. “I have enough drama in my own life, thank you very much. I don’t need yours too.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œMe again,” she said into the phone. “Take me out to dinner.”
    There was a pause. Warily…“And I should do this because…?”
    â€œBecause you haven’t actually seen me in, what, ten days? Two weeks, maybe, and are worried that I’m not eating properly.”
    Her partner snorted. She was joking, but there was some truth to it; she had forgotten to eat for two days once when she was on the job, and Sergei had totally freaked when he found out. “And the other, more convincing reason?”
    Wren made a snarling noise that completely failed to impress him. She thought maybe once it had. Years ago.
    â€œLook, Genevieve—” She rolled her eyes. He rarely used her hated given name, usually only when he wanted her to think he was pissed off about something. “I have other accounts, responsibilities which require my attention. I can’t just walk out when you whistle.”
    Ooo, someone was pissy. Market must be down again. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a hotshot high roller. This is work stuff, okay? Do I have to remind you that I make you more on one job than all your