Tricks of the Trade - By Laura Anne Gilman Page 0,37

knew damn well you weren’t worthy, and the place was a mess, and why the HELL was he in your living room?

“This is Bonita Torres,” Venec said, indicating my late arrival. I guessed that the others had already been introduced. Pietr was forgiven for not coming back with the coffee.

The fatae made a sort of half bow, its elongated head dipping toward its chin. I had no idea how to respond, so just returned the gesture, dipping my head slightly lower than it had, and hoped that was right. Of the entire team, I probably had the most formal training in dealing with dignitaries, because of J’s once-and-future status within the Eastern Council, but my mentor had never covered this particular circumstance.

“This is our entire team,” Venec said, glossing over the fact that Stosser wasn’t present. Where was the boss, anyway? “Will you now share with us what you came here for?”

The klassvaak turned back toward him, seemingly with relief. I had no way of reading the fatae’s body language, but I thought it was uncomfortable as hell, with everyone looking at it. That made sense, I guess. It wasn’t exactly an exhibitionist.

I ran over what little I knew of this particular breed, which wasn’t much. Not because I hadn’t been paying attention to J’s lectures, but because there wasn’t much to know. The klassvaak had come over with the first Dutch settlers. It was, as far as anyone knew, the only one of its kind, although opinions were mixed whether that had always been the case – making it closer to an Old One than I was comfortable with – or if the others had died out or otherwise drifted out of the mortal world. The klassvaak was a night-dweller, its moon-pale skin a little too reminiscent of a corpse’s tinge for human comfort, its eyes round, lashless, and deep blue over a tiny little nose and thin mouth.

I wondered, suddenly, if the klassvaak had been the inspiration for Nosferatu.

“No pleasure in being here, me,” the klassvaak said. Its speech was thick, as though it didn’t use English – or any human language for that matter – very often. I wasn’t even sure how its needle-thin lips could form the words, honestly. “But warning you deserve. The Roblin’s come to town.”

“The Roblin?” Sharon asked, leaning forward, and then realized her mistake when Venec glared at her. The klassvaak didn’t even seem to notice or hear, still looking at a spot somewhere to the left of Venec’s head. That was high-end manners, among the fatae – a direct stare was a challenge. Like cats, they preferred to look indirectly, even when in the middle of a conversation.

Most Westerners, human ones, anyway, found it distressing or rude, historically labeling it an indication of sly deceit. Venec didn’t seem bothered by it at all.

“The Roblin’s come to town,” it repeated, as though speaking to a slow but not disliked child. “Mischief calls it, and mischief it will do.”

I looked at Venec, trying to gauge if he knew what the hell the klassvaak was talking about. His face, and his core, were still, not giving anything away. Nobody else had a clue: I could tell that from the way they were watching Venec, waiting for a cue, the same as me. There was – not tension, exactly, but a sense of frustrated impatience building.

“Mischief toward whom?” Venec asked, and his voice was that low, not-quite-cajoling tone he used when we were working our way through a problem, the one that said “you can say anything to me, no matter how crazy, I’ll back your play.”

“Mischief it does,” the klassvaak repeated. Its gaze shifted from the side of Venec’s face; just for a second, but I caught it. Exasperation? No, annoyance. And a desire to be gone, clear as if it had shouted. The fatae was not used to interacting with those who spoke, only those who dreamed. It was uncomfortable here, being confronted and questioned.

“Elder Cousin,” I said, in passable-but-not-fluent German, playing a hunch. “We do not know this name, The Roblin. Inform us?”

I hoped to hell that’s what I had said, anyway, and that I used the proper formal verbs. My language classes were years ago and I hadn’t had time to travel and polish them since well before graduation.

The klassvaak switched to German with what seemed like relief. “The Roblin is.”

Well. That was helpful.

The klassvaak shifted its too-pale body again; whatever had driven it here, out of its comfort zone, to

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