Page 76 of Black to Light

Black’s molars ground together.

He didn’t mind the cub being in their penthouse. He didn’t mind her attaching herself to his wife, or to their dog. He’d practically expected both things for some reason. So what was his problem? Why was he pretending he didn’t know what Miri was talking about? Was it the thought of the two of them adopting another stray? Now? After Charles finally went far enough away that he couldn’t fucking interfere in either of their lives anymore?

No, that wasn’t it.

Was it the prospect of possibly having to parent the kid?

The thought made the unease in him worse, but somehow, it didn’t repel him.

No, it wasn’t that.

As daunting as the responsibility sounded, he knew they’d have help from every seer in the building, not to mention a decent chunk of the humans.

Whatever his problem was, it wasn’t his usual scramble of annoyance and resentment about never seeming to get anynormaltime to be with his wife.

“We’ll talk when I get back,” he said finally.

He kept his voice stripped of emotion, of any inflection at all.

“Until then, see if you can get some rest, honey,” he said, softer. “Watch some t.v. with the kid. Hell, see if she wants a shower or a shit-ton of food when she wakes up. Maybe if she starts to trust us, she’ll actuallywantto talk to us.”

“And tell us what?” Miriam asked, still a little exasperated. “You don’t think she has any idea who killed Rucker, do you?How could she possibly know anything, given where we found her?” Her voice turned a touch dry. “Or were you thinking she did it herself?”

Black opened his mouth to answer, closed it.

He kept his voice calm.

“We’ll talk when I get back,” he repeated.

He ended the call before she could answer.

18

THE NEXT TWO

The shooter stretched out on their stomach, conscious of the changing direction of the wind, of its tendency to blow in gusts. The blasts of cold air brought up interference in the headset, the tone changing depending on the exact direction.

A lot of those adjustments happened instinctively now.

They came from a less conscious part of the mind, one that picked up rough patterns without thought, that knew exactly how to compensate for windspeed given the trajectory and angle, how far to push the curve, given the distance from the balcony to the rooftop gardens and pool of the adjacent building, when to wait or shoot into a strong gust.

The hunter slowly pulled in a breath.

The gun’s sights notched exactly on the head of the first target.

Then slowly…slowly… the adjustments began to be implemented by rote, systematically and one by one, for all those factors the experienced mind had already catalogued.

Those calculations might be a near habit by now, but they required concentration.

The shooter concentrated. Breathed slowly, deeply, in and out.

There was no need to rush.

Not for this one.

When the trigger finger finally squeezed, it was soft as an exhaled breath.

The silencer hadn’t been necessary. Nor had it been desirable, since it decreased accuracy by the smallest of fractions, and the shot would be tricky even with every element working in unison and according to plan. The target was too important to take that kind of risk. Worse, if the shooter missed, the man on the other end of the rifle had enough resources to make any future attempts exponentially more difficult.

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