Wordcount: 3,381; total 56,929

Part 13: Things to do in New Granada when you're bored

On Sunday afternoon, I was contemplating desperate measures.

I'd re-read both of Green's books twice, and braved my fear of the Internet long enough to research some of the more salient points on Google. There was no use going to the Library Magical, since it would be teeming with Alhambra bigwigs monopolizing all the good books. Genevieve e-mailed me to tell me that she was pursuing enquiries with a variety of previous employers. I replied, wishing her luck with that and ignoring the second part peppered with question marks about last night and Jibril in particular. Then I sent a missive to another address that took me twenty minutes to write, mostly because I had to remember my entire stock of Latin and Greek curses, and make sure I wasn't repeating myself while disparaging the ancestry of both the addressee and Jibril himself.

Last night's talk had gone better than I thought, but I was still wary of Kirill. I hadn't meant to tell him that much, and I still wasn't sure how he would react. Anton might not be old enough to remember the bad days before the vampires acceded to the Daylight Concordat, but Kirill was, and there were still vampire skulls in the agents' rec room in the Tribunal headquarters. Anyway, he was spending his whole time on the phone, doing his part for bringing Magdalene Publishing down with a vengeance, mostly through the PR flacks in New York.

I had to turn my own phone off, because Natalie kept calling and leaving messages about needing to talk to me. I knew that if I waited long enough, she'd give Jibril my number, and if I broke my handset, I'd have no excuse for not getting a Blackberry.

I sorted and refolded my clothes, conditioned my hair and read the newest Dontzova book in forty minutes flat, at which point I found myself with nothing to do. Which was why at the moment I was in the kitchen, rifling through the cupboards and contemplating cooking.

Anton entered the kitchen and blanched. "Step away from that stove."

"What? It's not like I'm going to make you eat my cooking." I'd been thinking of whipping up some fufu and sauce, actually. The traditional food had been one of the things I'd liked about Katanga.

"Because you're like a natural disaster in the kitchen, and Dolores isn't coming in to clean until tomorrow." He closed the cupboards in front of my face and headed for the coffee machine.

I snorted. Vampires – pedants, all of them. "I'm bored."

"Go bother Father."

"He's on the phone. Again." I perched on the countertop and hugged my knees.

Out of a corner of my eye I saw Anton giving me a worried look. I'd asked Kirill to give him a Cliff's Notes version of my story; I don't think I could have stood telling it all again.

"You want to play chaperone?" he said. "I've got a date with Michael to go over the inventory in the Belgrant Street warehouse. I think he'll feel safer with someone else there."

"Anything to help your quest for true love. On a Sunday, though? And weren't you helping Kirill with Operation: Revenge?"

"I angled for dinner, but took what I could get, especially since the inspection has to be at a time when the place is not teeming with the claw-and-tentacle set. And Karim's bank is handling the financial side. All I needed to do was find a way to account for the expenses we'll be incurring – would you believe FASB accounting standards don't have an expense category for bloody vengeance? I mean, come on. This is the country that invented railway barons and hostile takeovers."

"I don't think they had to actually invent the barons, they invented themselves," I said as I poured myself a glass of grapefruit and pineapple juice. I'd been drinking it by the gallon today; the enzymes went a long way to balancing the snake's whacked out effect on my body chemistry.

"Pshaw. You just want to spoil my theory. Come on, I'll just get my stuff and we can go."

I tagged along upstairs with him. 'Getting his stuff' turned out to involve transferring files to his palmtop and stopping every thirty seconds to look up 'this one thing he was sure he wouldn't need', so I started looking around instead of hovering over his shoulder. As a concession to Anton's independence, Kirill almost never went into his rooms, and I followed his lead in that regard, so it was rare that I got a look at where the younger Rossov spent his days.

Anton's study paralelled Kirill's on the other side of the upper floor of the house, though in this case the wall between it and the adjacent bedroom had been knocked down, creating an open living space with various areas delineated by rugs and furniture. The décor was more modern than the rest of the house, but the place that home&garden mags usually call the relaxation area was done up in Russian themes, up to and including an icon taking up pride of place on a side table. It was surrounded by several photos, and I was surprised to see that they included one we'd sent him from the Bahamas. I had my hair in about a hundred braids in that one, and while Kirill had escaped that fate, in the white tropical suit he didn't look much like himself either.

The photo nearest to the icon was of Anton's mother. The sepia-toned features were delicate and serious, and once more I wondered what kind of woman she'd been. Kirill mentioned her sometimes with respect, for even with his help raising a son well in nineteenth century Russia had not been a walk in the park for a wannabe revolutionary's widow, but then he also told me she had stubbornly refused emigration, even if only to remove Anton from the eye of the secret police. After the abrupt end of Anton's katorga sentence, when the prison wardens sent her news from Siberia that he had been killed in an escape attempt, she had stepped off a train platform in front of an oncoming train.

I wondered what she would have made of her son a hundred and twenty years hence.

Anton looked up from fiddling with his computer and saw me looking at the photos. "By the way, I need a decent picture of yours for the gallery there. When's the last time you had a good photo taken?"

"I hate being photographed." That much was true – a relic of close to thirty years on the run from the law, perhaps. "The photo guy always puts me in some kind of contortionist pose that comes out looking like I'm thirty pounds fatter."

"Get father to take some portrait photos," Anton suggested. "He used to be a lot into photography in the eighties, before the global side of the business really took off."

I hadn't known that, though it made sense. I'd known Kirill to draw from time to time, and he did have a lot of photography books on the shelves. I'd never seen any photo equipment, but then there were whole rooms in the house that went unused.

"I'll think about it. But you already have a few of me." I tapped the Bahamas picture. It wasn't the only one: there was also a particularly good photo of the three of us in at Arthur's formal ascension and a collage of office party pictures that prominently featured the infamous photo of Anton siccing trained magical spiders my way.

Anton shook his head. "That one's you and father. I don't only like you because you're sleeping with him, you know."

"I should hope not," I scoffed. "I seem to recall saving your ass from zombies a good two months before that happened."

"Right, because setting the bar on fire was such a brilliant idea." Anton finished with his files and skipped up to me, then pulled on my ponytail. "Come on, dear stepmother, let's get out of here before you go completely stir crazy."

I didn't even bother retaliating, since dusk was falling and I could all but see the way he speeded up as his vampire magic woke, so I just followed him downstairs. Once we were at the door, I considered going back for my handbag and a jacket, but the night was shaping up almost abnormally warm for October, I was wearing one of Kirill's sweaters again, and if I needed money I figured I could always mooch off Anton.

"We're stopping for coffee," I informed him as I slid into the passenger seat.

"You're still sleepy?" Anton threw me a concerned look as he eased the Lexus out of the garage. "I thought you slept it off last night."

"Unlike some people, I'm human," well, mostly, "and right now I've managed to get jetlagged without leaving town. Coffee, Antosha."

"Yes, your Imperial Highness," he quipped in Russian. "Any other commands?"

"Just a trouble-free night for a change."

"Jinx."

"Damn."

I belatedly remembered about the seatbelt and sat back long enough to fasten it, then slid down until my knees rested on the cover of the glove box again. I might play it lightly about risking my life, but that time Anton had crashed the car, broken ribs had been painful, nice as it had been to guilt-trip him and make him fetch me everything for a good few weeks. I'd exploited him shamelessly, up to and including taking him for shopping trips with the girls, which had the added advantage of using his good taste to choose my clothes. Kirill had gone into overprotective mode that time, too, and there had been some very nice nights in the house on Radclyffe Lane. What I remembered most was warmth, the heat of the day infusing the night as we talked or just spent time in the same room.

I wondered whether I'd have to start looking for a new line of work come Monday.

Anton's hand on my shoulder startled me. "What is it?"

"You're brooding," he told me. "You look like father does after an affair falls through, and I thought you two were supposed to be keeping each other away from that. If I'm to deal with two people who become irrational and self-pitying after every set-back, I'm going on strike."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?"

"I used to have a list, but ran out of hard drive space. So?"

"So maybe I am brooding." I shrugged, sliding lower in the seat. "On top of everything else, I rounded off yesterday by seeing a reminder of my sorry past, and I have an irrational fear of having to revisit it."

"Come on. If I could turn into an accountant after everything that happened, anything is possible."

"You had Kirill to set you right." I'd heard a few stories about Anton's wild days in a series of illegal organisations that meddled in both Daylight and Nightfolk politics, until Kirill had put his foot down as head of the family and channeled Anton's energy into the business, but that had been before my time. Both of them only ever brought it up once every few years when Anton made vague noises about moving out, though so far nothing had come of it. My personal opinion was that both of them were far too rooted in the age when the whole clan would live in the family castle to ever seriously consider it.

"Father'd never give up on you," Anton said as if it was an absolute fact. "You're his. I'm not sure he'd let you go even if you wanted to."

"And that's supposed to reassure me?" I griped. "Pull over. Starbucks."

"Damn. I thought you'd forgotten."

I raised my hands in good old-fashioned zombie style. "Coffeeeeee..."

"Beats brains." Anton ducked, anticipating my thwap before I even thought about aiming it.

I was laughing when we entered the land of overpriced coffee analogues. I usually get my fix of caffeine and sugar in an independent place off St. Germain not far from Rossov Trading, but Starbucks is like McDonalds, edible and predictable, wherever you are. I'm European enough to consider the regular kind of American coffee to be an abomination unto any god, goddess or neuter you should care to name.

Anton was surprisingly well-behaved as we waited for my blended drink. He even paid for it before I could admit to not having my wallet on me, in the kind of gentlemanly gesture I usually expected from Kirill; Anton tends to be a little more in tune with the times as far as manners are concerned.

"What's with the pre-women's-lib trend?" I asked him in Russian as we waited.

The barista gave us a strange look, but I met her head on and managed to quell whatever comment would have been forthcoming. She shrugged and went back to making my coffee-like substance, adjusting the headscarf on her green hair.

"What, I can't be considerate for once?" He grinned insouciantly. "I just thought you could do with some coddling. Since you didn't tell me to kill anyone or blow anything up yet."

"Wait your turn." It figured – he must had been livid about missing the Friday night fun. "You'll get your chance. I just hope I'll be able to get all the pieces before it's too late."

He leaned in, lowering his voice. "You mean Arthur's latest guest?"

"Among other things." I looked at my watch. "I might have answers about that bit soon, depending on when certain people answer their e-mail. I hate trying to maintain contact overseas."

"Ever tried not being so cryptic?"

"There's no way did he walk out after thirty years," I clarified. "I still know some people in the Tribunal who might be willing to let me know why this happened."

"That's why you won't let father or me kill him?"

"Yeah."

"Pity." Anton touched my arm. "Let me know if you change your mind."

"Right now, there's other people to kill."

I took my drink and headed out of the coffee shop. It might have been a residue of the snake still floating fairly close to the surface, but I was immediately aware of the barista following us out into the street.

Anton noticed it too, and without talking we stepped to the sides as soon as we were outside, trapping the girl between us. Fortunately instead of attacking with the determination of a Magdalene Publishing assassin, she looked moved and starry-eyed.

"I'm sorry, I heard you talking – you're with the vampire investigation, aren't you?"

I raised my eyebrows – the one-eyebrow trick is one I never mastered, and one more reason to envy vampires, who for some reason all have it down pat. "How do you know?"

"So you are!" She beamed, and I relaxed a little. Then again, Mandy had been just as bouncy.

"And?"

"Uh, I just wanted to ask how it's going. I mean, all those people-"

"Are back where they should be."

From the way she brightened up, I figured that Arthur had managed to keep a lid on the recent happenings, or maybe rescues don't rate the same kind of rumor mill speed as kidnappings. Her smile showed characteristic blunt and heavy teeth, and now I saw that the green hair wasn't dyed at all. Half-dryad at least, maybe even a full one raised as a human, and you're slipping, Rachel Malory, if you haven't spotted it before.

"That's good. Because there's stuff in the air..." She shuddered. "Just, you people watch out for yourselves?"

"Thank you for the warning, tree-sister." I sketched a bow casual enough not to attract the notice of passers-by. "And I would appreciate it if you passed on that the matter is under control now."

I saw Anton mouth ‘jinx' again, but I repressed the urge to roll my eyes.

"May the Lady watch over you." The little barista dryad looked moved.

"May the Night look down on you with kindness." I managed an etiquette-correct smile and let Anton guide me to the car.

I busied myself with tuning the radio while we drove on in the rising traffic of a New Granada Sunday evening. I wasn't in the mood for Sinatra's crooning for one, and I switched from station to station, jabbing the search button like it was Ralph Green's eyeball, until I finally gave up in the middle of a static band that filled the car with a low buzz. I felt myself drifting in a state of detachment, at a moment when everyone from the coffee dryad to the Prince of the city needed me in the same mode that had buoyed me through Friday night and Saturday morning, though now with vengeance instead of protection, striking fast and hard against all that threatened us. But that was the snake's role, its anger and hate, its inability to realize it might not be at the center of things for once, and if I let out the snake now of all times, I wasn't sure I could reel it back in before it did things I would regret.

Looking at Anton's face, his lips twisting in an irritated smile as he navigated the traffic, I wondered what the snake made of him in the end. It did not like vampires any more than it liked werewolves, a primitive instinct that said danger and death and kill, but then sex is one of the states – like sleep and fury and the verge of death – when we are united, and it seemed to like Kirill fine. I nudged the snake out of its slumber and let it float to the surface momentarily, the precarious construction that was Rachel Malory slipping under the surface for a blink of an eye in a metapsychological see-saw of consciousness.

A feeling of contentment was all I got from the snake before it slipped down to sleep once more, and when I focussed on my sight again, Anton was looking at me quizzically.

"What were you thinking about?" he asked, still in Russian instead of the English we tended to speak outside the house.

"Not much, Antosha. Just looking at you."

"You had a strange smile," he said. "For a moment – like Mother used to smile. Warm."

I closed my eyes and decided to have a long chat with the snake, providing I found a way to feed Pentothal to my own subconscious. "I must have slipped. I'm not a warm kind of person."

"Right." He reached out and tweaked my hair. "Tell that to someone who hasn't seen you fuss over everyone at work if they have so much as a sniffle. Or Father when he got burned in that fire."

"That was just taking care of my continued employment, not to mention the benefits," I scoffed.

"Watching over Justin's Change then. Or this morning – I heard all those phonecalls, you know, and the help you offered to all the kidnapped people, even the wolves."

"They're just little girls. And I should have found them earlier." I felt my scowl deepening. "It's the Jewish mother genes."

"Sure." Anton turned the wheel sharply and pasted the car into a gap between two SUVs in the left lane, to the tune of a dozen car horns. "Rachel..."

I sighed. "Yeah?"

"Just – I yank your tail about this a lot, but don't do anything stupid?" He looked actually worried, and I had to suppress an impulse to pat his head as I would a puppy's. The damn snake was getting skinned next chance I got. "Father wouldn't forgive me if I made you leave."

I decided to latch on the safer part of that. "Kirill always forgives you."

"Not this. And I don't think I'd forgive myself."

The traffic stopped completely as the light went red, and Anton took advantage of that to let go of the wheel and lean over to kiss my cheek. I patted his shoulder as he held my arm, vampire-strong but as gentle as if I was a china figurine. It didn't feel awkward at all.