Staying Dead by Laura Anne Gilman Read Free Book Online Page B

unthinkable. You couldn’t hire a wizzart; they were the flakes of the magic-using world, just as likely to forget what they were doing, and for whom. Or to bring your solution to your enemies, just for kicks. They were too unpredictable for a well-ordered business plan. He could see her mind working at a breakneck speed, choosing and discarding alternatives until she came up with one she thought he could accept. “There has been some talk about a freelance mage down in New Mexico; very powerful, but a little too…creative in his ways for the rest of his kind. Solid reputation—has never once sold out or otherwise failed a client. Council-trained, but no longer under their strictures. He’s opened his doors to bidders—I think that we would be able to come to an agreement with him that would be mutually beneficial.”
    A well-trained, thinking associate was a blessing to their manager. “Excellent. Marco, see that it’s done.”
    One of the men nodded his head, and turned to leave the room. His pace was perhaps a shade too swift for propriety, but Frants didn’t call him on it. A little fear, leavened by generous bonuses, made for excellent working conditions.
    Denise had stiffened when he gave her idea to someone else, but she didn’t allow any resentment or anger to show on her face. Good girl. He would have to reward her when all this was done.
    â€œRandolph?”
    The remaining man came to attention, his shoulders going back in an automatic response. You could take the boy out of the Corps, but…
    â€œCould you please speak to Allison in Human Resources, have her write up a press release stating that we had an unfortunate attempt on our security, but that we have every faith in the systems we use, and do not feel that there is any need for alarm, etc. If this bastard did take the stone to try and undermine Frants Industries, he will have to work harder than that. Much, much harder.”
    Randolph nodded and performed a sharp about-face, covering the plush carpeting between him and the door with a steady, measured stride.
    â€œSir?” Denise said, when he sat down behind his heavy mahogany desk, to all appearances having forgotten she was still there.
    â€œAh yes, Denise.” He looked at her, his pale blue eyes cold, dispassionately calculating. “It may be that this is not the act of a business competitor, but someone perhaps a bit more…directly connected with the particular object which was taken. If that is—an extreme possibility, I agree—but if that is so, then I think that we may need to take further steps than even the ones you had suggested. If you would give me your arm, please?”
    Denise had worked for Oliver Frants most of her adult life. She knew what he was asking. And, to her credit, she didn’t flinch as he reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out a small, intricately woven straw box with an oddly liquid design, like an hourglass but not, on the lid. He slid the box across the table toward her, and something inside it shhhhhssssssshhhed like old grass in the wind.
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    The assistant still sitting at her desk heard a noise in the main office. A sibilant, sharp noise, like metal on metal. A wet slap, like flesh on flesh, and a muffled moan of agony. And then silence.
    She placed her hands palm down on her desk, stared at the well-manicured fingers that cost fifty dollars every single week to keep in ideal condition, and swallowed hard.
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    Wren spent the rest of the afternoon reading up on the newest generation of motion detectors—not her idea of light reading, but essential to keeping up to date in her particular line of work. Sometimes, for whatever reason, you couldn’t use current. Wren refused to be caught with her pants down if and when that happened to her.
    Sprawled on the carpet in the third bedroom, which was otherwise filled with her considerable research library, engrossed despite herself by