The Stringer by Jeff Somers Read Free Book Online

tumbled out the window, the sash crashing down behind her, as the door behind me smashed open with an explosion of snapping wood and tearing metal. Woozy, as the spell drained me, I turned just in time for good old Mr. Landry to hit me in the head hard enough to spin me around and drop me to the floor, my own blood spraying in a mist.
    He leaped on me and slapped one cold, slack hand over my mouth before I could cast again, then lifted me bodily off the floor. He carried me back out through the ruined door into the sitting room, and spun smartly, carrying me through the second door into a small office or den, dark and dense with bookshelves, lit by yet more kerosene lamps. A small desk and two chairs had been crammed into the space. In one sat a tidy older woman, handsome and slim, wearing trousers and a comfortable-looking sweater, her gray hair done in a neat bun. A pair of pink reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she worked a pile of knitting in her lap, pink and yellow yarn, needles flashing.
    Behind her stood a large man with the beefy look of a Bleeder: tall, fat, and with scars crisscrossing his arms in a complex pattern. He wore black pants, a black sleeveless shirt, and a black hood on his head. He stood perfectly still, at attention. Whoever this woman was, she was power: saganustari , at least, possibly higher up on the food chain.
    She didn’t look up as we crashed into the room, or when Landry tossed me casually into the other chair and then slipped behind me and wrapped his bony arm around my throat, exerting expert pressure and cutting off my breathing.
    My eyes bugged out and I strained ineffectually against him as the woman looked up from her knitting. She slid the glasses off her face so they hung around her neck on a silver chain and cupped her hands in her lap. As I choked, she ran her eyes up and down me and offered a half-smile.
    â€œSo good of you,” she said, sounding like everybody’s grandmother. “Can I offer you some tea?”

5.
    LANDRY, MUTTERING “ BALAHUL ” UNDER his breath, wheeled the cart into the tiny room with exaggerated care, as if he’d only recently learned how gravity worked. My hostess smiled blandly as he maneuvered the cart between us, bearing a delicate-looking teapot with pink flowers on it, two white teacups, and a small plate of butter cookies.
    I looked up at her and opened my mouth. “I—”
    The Bleeder behind her moved in a flash to cut himself, a thin, precise line of red opening up on his forearm. The grandma spoke a single Word, sed , gently, almost absent-mindedly, and my words died in my mouth. It was really disturbing that I hadn’t seen any sign from her. Her Bleeder had just moved . I didn’t often travel in the swanky circles of enustari , the powerful and the ruthless, but usually they had to give some sign to their Bleeders.
    I sat in polite silence while Landry made his stiff, dead way out of the room, humming his one Word.
    My host leaned forward and picked up the teapot and poured. “All right, let’s find out what you’re good for. I don’t get enough living ones. More complex, of course, requires more effort but yields better results. You’re a practitioner? Ustari ?”
    Ours was a small, strange club. I didn’t know for certain how many of us there were, bleeding people for gas and casting spells, but certainly no more than a few thousand. Maybe fewer. I hesitated for a moment. The dancing, watery light of the kerosene lamp and the utter silence made the room feel even smaller. I wondered if I’d have any chance of making a run for it past Landry.
    Deciding I needed a better shot, I nodded.
    She smiled. “Sugar? Milk?”
    I nodded again.
    â€œQuiet one,” she said, dropping two cubes of sugar into a cup and following that with a dash of milk. Handing me the cup, she smiled again. “That’s a sign of intelligence.”
    I wanted to say