Tricks of the Trade - By Laura Anne Gilman Page 0,1

There was maybe a sense of unease, a niggling in the back of their minds, not like they’d forgotten something but that something was happening that they should know about, that was going to affect them.

And then it was gone: fading into the still-chilly predawn air, lost in the quiet bustle of hospital workers changing shifts, police cars idling on street corners, short-order cooks strapping on fresh aprons and firing up grease-skimmed griddles. Those particularly sensitive to bad vibes, Null and Talent alike, shifted restlessly in their sleep, or woke feeling particularly anxious or alert, but there was nothing to tell them why they felt that way, and most of them forgot it after the first cup of coffee, and the first crisis of the day.

But because it was forgotten didn’t mean it was gone.

The malaise started downtown, and spread, like fingers of a hand stretching out to cover all five boroughs of New York City. Barely touching anything, yet sensing, feeling, absorbing the pulse of the city, finding the weak points, the delicate spots, the danger zones.

And, finding them, narrowing in for the kill.

“All right, people, settle down.”

The noise level hadn’t been high to begin with, but the restless movements stilled almost immediately. It was Wednesday, and we were all gathered in the main conference room in the PUPI offices, which were on the seventh floor of a nondescript seven-story brick building uptown in Harlem. Outside I could hear the muffled sounds of traffic, trucks and buses and cabbies in their usual dance, sirens cutting in and out like a soprano having diva-fits in a cast of baritones. Seven of us: me, and Sharon, Pietr, Nifty, Nick, and our newest hire, Lou. And Benjamin Venec, our boss.

“After the past few weeks I had planned on spending time working on your defensive work, but – ”

“We’ve got a job? Do I get to – ?”

Venec scowled at the interruption. “No.”

Nifty was getting itchy. Literally: he’d had a run-in with a molting Istiachi two weeks ago, which was unfortunate, since molting made them both pissy and toxic. He’d ended up with a bad rash – startlingly bright green against his black skin – that he was under strict orders not to scratch. He was also stuck on office duty until it healed, while we’d been out on a case, and that was really making his skin itch.

The first time I’d ever seen Nifty during our group interview/audition for this job, I’d thought “well-dressed jock” and assumed he was all bulk and no brain. Working with him for the past year had proved that assumption wrong: he was smart and surprisingly sophisticated. But right now, he was more like a petulant ten-year-old than a pro-quality athlete turned paranormal P.I.

“Why can’t I... ” he started to ask again, his voice not quite whining, but getting awfully close.

“Because you’re still contagious,” Venec said, not even looking at him. “That’s fine here, where we can protect ourselves, but letting you out among Nulls, who’d freak if they started coming over in sparkling green itches? Forget about it, Lawrence.”

I hid a smile. Venec would not appreciate knowing how very much more like a parent than a boss he sounded, right then. Benjamin Venec was many, many things: smart, savvy, fierce, an utter bastard when it suited him, and hotter than hell, with dark eyes that I still couldn’t identify the color of, because every time I looked into them I got seriously distracted, but he was absolutely not daddy material.

Nifty didn’t have the same physical – or emotional – reaction I did to Benjamin Venec, but Venec was the Big Dog, so Nifty subsided, spreading his hands – plate-size, and equally capable of pulling a pigskin out of the air or dragging a suspect to the ground – flat on the conference room table to keep from rubbing at his arms or legs. Since I’d been right behind him when the Istiachi lifted its tail and sprayed, I was sympathetic. That could have been me, if my coworker hadn’t massed twice my weight, and protected me from the attack.

It was funny, really. When I’d agreed to work for the mad Talent combination of Ian Stosser and Benjamin Venec, I never thought it would result in me facing down a foot-long land-squid and ducking toxic urine in order to get the skinny on a bank robbery.

J, my mentor, says I need to read more noir mysteries, to expand my expectations about this job. J still isn’t really