The Veil
Page 11
Gunnar offered both hands, helped pull me to my feet.
Tadji stood up, too. She looked a little guilty, and I half expected her to give in and walk back with me.
But before she could speak, a shadow fell over us. We looked up. The shadow belonged to a very well-built man. His skin was dark, and his eyes were brown and amused beneath slightly pointed eyebrows. His chest was bare, his abandoned T-shirt tucked into one of his back pockets. And across his gloriously broad chest was a black tattoo in a Gothic font: WORK HARD, PLAY HARD.
I could relate.
“Hey,” he said with a smile.
“Hey,” the three of us said simultaneously. We all held out hope.
The man grinned, a flash of white teeth, but it was all for Tadji. He put a hand on his chest. “I’m Will Burke,” he said, then hooked a thumb toward the band, currently offering us a lively rendition of “Tipitina.” “But everybody calls me ‘Burke.’ Would you like to dance?”
“Oh, well, I—” Tadji looked at me, eyebrows lifted in obvious hope.
“Don’t mind me,” I said with a smile. “I was just leaving. The store is calling my name.”
Burke snapped his fingers, pointed at me. “I knew I’d seen you before. You run Royal Mercantile?”
“I do.” The Marriott was only a few blocks away, and the soldiers who lived there bought sundries at the store, so I knew a lot of agents by sight. But Burke didn’t look familiar. “Have you been in?”
“Only once. I haven’t been in the city very long. I’m with PCC Materiel. Just transferred.” He grinned. “I hear you’ve got the best store in the Quarter.”
PCC was the Paranormal Combatant Command, the Defense agency that managed the entire war effort. Containment was one of its units, as was Materiel.
“It’s easy to be one of the best when you’re one of the few,” I said, returning the smile, and deciding I liked him. And not just because he’d complimented my store. “But don’t let us interrupt you. You were going to dance?”
“Thank you,” Tadji mouthed, and took Burke’s extended hand. They walked toward the crowd, began to move and sway to the music.
“I like him,” Gunnar said.
I snorted. “That’s because he’s your type: gorgeous and well connected.”
“And apparently skilled at the art of materiel.”
“And in civilian terms that means what, exactly?”
“That means he has access to the good stuff. Food. Furniture. Uniforms.”
I knew an opportunity when I heard one. I turned to him, linked my hands together pleadingly. “See if he can get me some cheese. The real stuff, not cheese-flavored product, not ‘cheeselike’ spread. Actual, real cheddar.”
“You know refrigerated trucks don’t do well in the Zone.”
I knew—it was another electricity problem—but I didn’t care. “I’ll give you a million dollars if you can get me some real cheese.”
“You don’t have a million dollars.”
“I have a million walking sticks.”
Gunnar grinned. “I don’t want your walking sticks.” He pursed his lips, considering. “But I do need to make sure he’s on the Commandant’s visitor list.” He pulled out a small notebook and pencil to scribble a note. Gunnar took his job seriously, and wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to tell the Commandant about a material (or materiel) advantage.
That’s precisely what made my friendship with Gunnar tricky. But he was too much my family to give up on him now.
“Come on,” he said, shoving the notebook away again. “I’ll walk you back to the store.”
Tadji stood up, too. She looked a little guilty, and I half expected her to give in and walk back with me.
But before she could speak, a shadow fell over us. We looked up. The shadow belonged to a very well-built man. His skin was dark, and his eyes were brown and amused beneath slightly pointed eyebrows. His chest was bare, his abandoned T-shirt tucked into one of his back pockets. And across his gloriously broad chest was a black tattoo in a Gothic font: WORK HARD, PLAY HARD.
I could relate.
“Hey,” he said with a smile.
“Hey,” the three of us said simultaneously. We all held out hope.
The man grinned, a flash of white teeth, but it was all for Tadji. He put a hand on his chest. “I’m Will Burke,” he said, then hooked a thumb toward the band, currently offering us a lively rendition of “Tipitina.” “But everybody calls me ‘Burke.’ Would you like to dance?”
“Oh, well, I—” Tadji looked at me, eyebrows lifted in obvious hope.
“Don’t mind me,” I said with a smile. “I was just leaving. The store is calling my name.”
Burke snapped his fingers, pointed at me. “I knew I’d seen you before. You run Royal Mercantile?”
“I do.” The Marriott was only a few blocks away, and the soldiers who lived there bought sundries at the store, so I knew a lot of agents by sight. But Burke didn’t look familiar. “Have you been in?”
“Only once. I haven’t been in the city very long. I’m with PCC Materiel. Just transferred.” He grinned. “I hear you’ve got the best store in the Quarter.”
PCC was the Paranormal Combatant Command, the Defense agency that managed the entire war effort. Containment was one of its units, as was Materiel.
“It’s easy to be one of the best when you’re one of the few,” I said, returning the smile, and deciding I liked him. And not just because he’d complimented my store. “But don’t let us interrupt you. You were going to dance?”
“Thank you,” Tadji mouthed, and took Burke’s extended hand. They walked toward the crowd, began to move and sway to the music.
“I like him,” Gunnar said.
I snorted. “That’s because he’s your type: gorgeous and well connected.”
“And apparently skilled at the art of materiel.”
“And in civilian terms that means what, exactly?”
“That means he has access to the good stuff. Food. Furniture. Uniforms.”
I knew an opportunity when I heard one. I turned to him, linked my hands together pleadingly. “See if he can get me some cheese. The real stuff, not cheese-flavored product, not ‘cheeselike’ spread. Actual, real cheddar.”
“You know refrigerated trucks don’t do well in the Zone.”
I knew—it was another electricity problem—but I didn’t care. “I’ll give you a million dollars if you can get me some real cheese.”
“You don’t have a million dollars.”
“I have a million walking sticks.”
Gunnar grinned. “I don’t want your walking sticks.” He pursed his lips, considering. “But I do need to make sure he’s on the Commandant’s visitor list.” He pulled out a small notebook and pencil to scribble a note. Gunnar took his job seriously, and wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to tell the Commandant about a material (or materiel) advantage.
That’s precisely what made my friendship with Gunnar tricky. But he was too much my family to give up on him now.
“Come on,” he said, shoving the notebook away again. “I’ll walk you back to the store.”
