Tricks of the Trade - By Laura Anne Gilman Page 0,57
a lock of hair off his face with way more force than the offending hairs deserved, I was betting he was.
Oddly, what I was remembering, even more than those few seconds of body contact, was the way he had, unconsciously, taken my hand when we walked, and the way his scent had lingered on my skin, after.
The sound of someone in the hallway outside broke the moment, thank god, before either of us did anything stupid. By the time Sharon and Nick came into the office, we were standing a respectable distance apart, and talking about the developments regarding The Roblin like there was nothing else on our minds.
“Hi, sorry we’re late, got held up on the subway,” Nick said in greeting, seeing Venec standing there like the Fount of Doom.
“People, listen up,” Venec said it loud enough that doors down the hallway opened, and Nift, Pietr, and Lou popped their heads out to see what was up. He waved them down, and waited while everyone gathered.
“We’re taking the situation with The Roblin to active status. There’s reason to believe that he may be looking at us, specifically.”
“Meaning what?” Sharon narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out what he wasn’t saying.
“Meaning I want all of you to keep your eyes out. Anything even the slightest shade off, be it winning the lottery, polar bears in your bathroom or – ” he shot me a glare “ – pigeons flying backward, I want to know about, and I want to know the instant you see it.”
“And?” Nick looked poised to be given some new, more exciting task.
“And that’s it. Don’t change your lives, keep your focus on the two cases we already have.”
The message was clear: no matter what warning we might get, mischief – no matter the source – was not our priority.
Somehow, from the look in his eyes, the way he watched me for a long minute before excusing himself, I didn’t think Venec was going to let go of it that easily, himself.
Everyone scattered again, and I went to get my delayed coffee, swearing under my breath when the only milk in the fridge was chunky. No time to go buy fresh: the meeting was about to start.
A few months ago, we – meaning the pups, not the Big Dogs – had started holding Wednesday morning meetings in the midsize conference room, as opposed to the largest one where we did brainstorming sessions with the whole team. We’d gotten rid of the table that came with the lease, and brought in a bunch of padded benches and armless chairs. It wasn’t as comfortable as the break room, and didn’t have instant access to the kitchenette, but it was quiet, and more private for brainstorming. Venec and Stosser stayed out, unless specifically invited in.
It was a pretty somber group that eventually gathered, once everyone’d had a chance to digest the news. In an obvious change of agenda, our first item was sharing any information we had found on The Roblin’s proclivities since last week. I started out, reluctantly, by telling them about Bobo’s warning. I’d gotten enough shit from certain coworkers previously for having a fatae bodyguard, I didn’t want to bring it up again, but for once, Nicky kept his mouth shut.
Everyone had seen things that were, in retrospect, weird, but other than my creepy-crawly sensation, nobody had noticed anything that really tipped the scales. Mostly it was small stuff, pranks rather than what you’d expect from an imp with The Roblin’s reputation: traffic signals flashing “better run” instead of “walk,” PETA protesters finding bacon in their tofu sandwiches during a protest outing – which had Sharon audibly wishing she’d thought of it – to every TLC meter in the city spinning wildly out of control, resulting either in negative cab fares, or tabs of $100 to go crosstown. The resulting fistfights that inevitably broke out from that were bad, but the cops handled it. It wasn’t anything that should be calling for our attention. We weren’t sure, in light of the most recent events, if that was good, or bad.
The pigeons flying backward thing had the potential to freak tourists out, and it seemed like that was a pretty widespread occurrence, but when Pietr checked with a birder he knew, we discovered that the falcons that lived in the skyscraper cliffs had caught on quickly, and had no trouble catching an awkwardly flying, and therefore slower than usual, lunch.