“Looks like the old boy was trying to make a getaway… pity he didn’t make it.” She took the painting down, the tingling fading once she made contact with the spelled item. She looked around for the tube, but didn’t see it. Refusing to muck around any longer, she pulled the scrunchie out from her hair, letting the ponytail fall loose, and wrapped it around the rerolled painting. She was ready to get the hell out of there, but something made her look back over her shoulder to the body lying on the floor.

“Ah… hell.” She sighed, tucking the roll under one arm and retracing her steps. Stooping low, she put her hand out, palm down and flat. A hesitation, a centering, and then she touched the corpse. Spirits fled in the moment of death, unless there was a damn good reason-or a very strong spell-holding them in place. But while the animus might be gone, the body still had current caught in the biofield every living being generated, the natural electricity that made Kirlian photography possible.

“What? No! No, mine, mine, mustn’t take, mustn’t…” a fast-moving figure in front of him, angry, full of rage. “Where is it? She didn’t have it on her when she left, which means you have it, now where? Where. Is. It?”

Whimpering, then another heavy blow. The old man spins under the force, falls to the ground. “Useless old fool…”

The sound of something whistling down a shock of red-flaring pain, and…

Nothing

– 

Wren came out of the connection like a dog shaking off water, breathing heavy. “Damn damn damn damn!” He’d been killed for the painting. Killed… and she might have been… No time to think about it, she’d already stayed too long. Not that she was worried about cops showing up to investigate: Poor bastard had been dead a day at least.

Her eyes narrowed at the thought. “Ah… hell.” Nobody deserved to rot like that. Slipping out the front door, she wiped the handle clean, then uncoiled a narrow rope of current from her inner pool and reached out with it, brushing the surface of the burglar alarm.

The loud wail of the alarm covered the sound of her bootheels on pavement, moving in the general direction of away.

– 

The painting remained untouched on the coffee table where Wren had tossed it when she came in the door to Sergei’s apartment. Wren was curled up on the sofa, while Sergei paced back and forth in front of her.

“Who the hell are we working for, Sergei? Because I get the feeling there’s something they didn’t tell us. Something that almost got me killed. And did get that poor bastard-”

“Bob Goveiss.”

“Bob, killed. So give.”

“Yes. That’s what doesn’t make sense.”

“What?”

“The violence.” He shook his head. “Those paintings were on loan from the French government. The same government that’s about to splinter apart from the inside, which could have awkward repercussions on the current political scene.”

“So sayeth CNN, amen,” Wren said, but she was listening. “And…?”

“And, the organization that hired us was planning on holding that painting hostage, to force the various factions to come back to the table.”

Wren stared at her partner. “Okay, huh?”

He paced back and forth, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “It’s rare, but there have been a number of cases where an item is taken to force two sides to cooperate or risk being shown in public as the destroyer of a priceless work of art. Most recently in the theft of a Chagall painting: A ransom note was sent demanding peace in the Middle East before the painting would be returned. A useless demand, really, but it made a splash in the news.”

Wren considered that, a small smile appearing on her face. “I like that,” she said finally.

“Yeah. It does have appeal. But it doesn’t always work. Anyway, it still doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone who knew about the heist want to-”

“Play a round of Kill the Retriever?”

“Yes.”

“Dunno. That’s your job to find out. I’m going home before I forget what it looks like, catch some sleep before my next turn playing peacemaker. Call me when you find out anything.” She got up, stretched, looked at her partner. “But do me a favor? Lock the doors when I leave. And don’t be careless.”

Sergei shook his head, his squared-off face softening as he smiled. “I’m always careful, Zhenechka.”

Wren thought briefly of the nasty little gun he carried on some jobs, and shuddered. “Right. Better them than us and all that jazz.” She kissed him good bye, rubbing her cheek against his five o’clock stubble, and let herself out.

– 

The next evening he caught up with her on Park duty. A piskie had decided to pick on her, spluttering insults on her paternity, her maternity, and the general state of her underwear. Since piskies were, on average, twenty inches high and five pounds soaking wet, Wren’s reaction was closer to embarrassed annoyance than anything else. She kept trying to kick it, but it would dance out of the way and come back a few moments later, still talking.

“Goid, you’re annoying,” she said to it.

“And you could use a drag into the lake. Wanna try?”

“Remember what happened last time you tried dunking a lone-jack?”

Clearly it did, dancing back again until it was just out of reach. “Annoying human. Spoil all our fun.”

“Be glad that’s all I’m spoiling, you bothersome little wart.”

“Want me to shoot him?” Sergei asked, falling into step beside her.

“You got a bullet small enough?”

“I hear tell that’s all he’s got,” Goid crowed, then bit its tongue with an audible yelp when Sergei turned to glare at it. It was no secret in the Cosa that the Wren’s partner had little love for the fatae, the purely supernatural creatures of the Cosa Nostradamus.

“Scoot,” he said to it. Goid scooted.

“Damn. Next time the Cosa calls, you can answer, okay? What’s up?”

“Nothing.” His voice was sharp, and she could practically feel the irritation rising off him, now that the distraction of the fatae was gone. “As in, not a god-damned thing. As in, my contact seems to have disappeared.”

“The rest of the payment got deposited?”

One or two of the lines in Sergei’s forehead eased out. “The rest was deposited this afternoon, soon as they got their hands on the painting.”

“Well then.” Wren let out a little sigh. “What’s a possible attempt on my life, so long as we’re paid.”

He cast a sideways look at her. “You mean that?”

They walked a few more paces along a tree-shrouded path, ignoring the faint giggles and rustling branches following them. “No,” she said finally, on a sigh. “No, I don’t. Not after… I felt him. And I felt him die. I can’t walk away from that.”

“Right. Lowell did a rundown on this organization for me. They check out clean, he says-but he was very surprised that they had the money to pay us. Not a dime in their collective kitty, and no fund-raisers going on in their name.”

“Breaks my heart, it does.” She didn’t like Sergei’s assistant, but the twit did know how to do his research. “So they hocked the furniture to pay us?” The giggles got louder as they reached a particularly large tree, and Wren put a hand on Sergei’s arm to stop him. “Hang on.”

She slipped out of her sneakers and planted her bare feet in the grass by the side of the road. Safely grounded, she opened herself to the current of the world around her. Colors swirled, electrons danced, and she sorted through the information tugging at her senses until she was able to discern the slightly off pattern twined around the tree. A tendril snaked out, stroking the ends of the pattern, then retracting in a flash as the pattern snapped out, attempting to snare her within its own tendrils.

She came back to herself with a blink, after confirming that the trap had been sprung. A chorus of disappointed “awwwws…” trailed after them as she slipped her shoes back on, and they walked on.