Shadowrun: Borrowed Time Read online

  Winterhawk was all too pleased to do just that: the number of magical artifacts spread out before him was not large, but their effect on him was very much the same as what a small child might experience if set loose in a particularly enticing toy store. Still, he had a job to do and it didn’t include spending the rest of the evening in close examination of each and every artifact, as much as he would have liked that. He kept his perceptions shifted to the astral plane as he joined his client in her explorations. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked, stopping near a painting of a young girl, whose eerie eyes seemed to follow the observer around the room.

  Winterhawk murmured noncommittally. He’d seen the painting before; the last time had been in a small, private museum in Amsterdam devoted to magical art. It had disappeared a couple years ago, and had, up until now, not resurfaced yet. He paused to study it more carefully, but Lydia was already on the move again.

  “Who is that man?” she asked after a moment, this time under her breath.

  “What man?”

  “The Asian elf, standing next to the goblet there on the end. He keeps looking at us.”

  Winterhawk glanced up, appearing to be examining the jewel-encrusted gold necklace next to the goblet in question. “He’s not looking at you,” he said in the same tone.

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s—an old acquaintance.” That was one way to put it: he was a formidable shaman affiliated with Wuxing; Winterhawk and his team had once lifted a priceless magical coin from a facility he was responsible for guarding, resulting in a reprimand and a demotion. Winterhawk caught the elf’s gaze, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged. The elf barely nodded back, but otherwise remained expressionless.

  As Lydia continued her aimless wandering, Winterhawk split his attention between studying the various items on display and keeping surreptitious track of several other patrons he recognized. Despite the high degree of security and the genteel veneer everyone was maintaining, the tension among many of the guests was nearly visible to the naked eye. A lot of these people didn’t like each other, and had good reason not to. Aside from those who would have cheerfully seen him dead in bygone days, Winterhawk didn’t miss the fact that several of the elegantly clad men and women were casting chilly glances at each other under cover of checking out the artifacts. If the simmering hostility in here ever burst free of its careful boundaries, this whole place could devolve into a magical bloodbath in seconds. He didn’t expect it to happen—these sorts were experts at keeping things under wraps—but it was always wise to keep it in mind and prepare a contingency plan. Just in case.

  After a few minutes, Lydia apparently decided that sufficient time had passed that she could approach her target without attracting too much attention. Her arm still linked through his, she led him to a round table near the end of the display. There, arranged on a pedestal in an artful nest of crumpled black velvet, was a beautifully carved cameo brooch. The setting was rose gold; the carving itself large and intricately detailed, displaying a female face in profile against a background of lustrous black. The face was round and strong-boned; it looked strangely unfeminine until one realized that it depicted what looked very much like a handsome dwarf woman. The piece was clearly very old, and despite the fact that no effort had been made to clean it up, it shimmered under the directed overhead light. An ARO below it declared it to be of unknown age and unknown artist, and included the identifying information needed if one wanted to place a bid.

  “It’s lovely,” Lydia said. “Just lovely.” She glanced at Winterhawk, her eyes full of hope, almost as if she were begging him to give her the answer she desired.

  Showtime, then. Winterhawk reclaimed his arm, took a deep breath, and focused his concentration to pinpoint accuracy. He hoped that the article was genuine, too; not because he had any particular desire for it to end up in the private collection of this over-privileged magpie who would regard it as nothing more than another trophy, but rather because he had nothing but contempt for those who produced fake magical items for monetary gain. Magic was a force deserving of respect: why waste the prodigious level of talent required to make such credible counterfeits when there were so many other ways to put it to use?

  He leaned in as closely as he was permitted, mindful of the vigilant gazes of the silent security guards, and the rest of the room melted away. After a few moments he stepped back, his shoulders dropping a little. He shook his head, just once.

  Lydia’s eyes went wide. “Oh, please don’t tell me—”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  It was a masterful job: he had to give whoever was responsible for it that. Clearly the counterfeiter was highly talented and knew his or her way around magical antiquities. The brooch itself was quite likely almost as old as it was claimed to be, and might even have started out possessing some small bit of magical energy of its own, though Winterhawk doubted the magic was anywhere near as old as the object itself. In any case, if he hadn’t known what he was looking for, he probably wouldn’t have spotted it: small inconsistencies in the brooch’s magical aura, indicating that it had been subtly tampered with. Detecting such tampering was a skill he’d honed over the last couple of years to support his occasional work with the Draco Foundation, the Dunkelzahn Institute of Magical Research, and other similar organizations he’d offered his services to.

  Lydia’s gaze shifted back and forth between the cameo and Winterhawk; her slightly out-of-focus expression told him that she too was assensing. “Are—you sure?” Her voice shook a little, as if she feared offending him with her question.

  Winterhawk shrugged. “You’ve hired me as a consultant. I’ve given you my professional assessment. It’s up to you whether you choose to accept it.”

  She studied the cameo for a moment longer, then took his arm again and led him off, away from the displayed artifacts. “Well,” she said at last. “At least you’ve saved me the embarrassment and expense of buying another fake. Are you going to tell anyone?”

  He shifted his eyes up, sweeping over the group. The elf was watching them; so was a dark-skinned human woman in a deep blue NightShade gown whom he recognized as a known Saeder-Krupp retainer. “It’s not my responsibility to save them from their own greed,” he said, just loudly enough for Lydia to hear. “Are we done here, then?”

  She nodded, still looking disappointed. “I’m not interested in any of the rest of these pieces, even if they’re real. I’m so sorry to bring you all the way out here for such a waste of time.”

  “Not at all. I’ve saved you some trouble, and I haven’t been back to Seattle in a while. Perhaps I’ll look up some old friends while I’m here.” They were leaving now, heading back out through the front room under the watchful eye of more of the security personnel.

  Her hand tightened on his arm. “At least have a drink with me,” she said, tilting her head and giving him the kind of sly smile that was impossible to mistake. “It’s the least I can do. I’d love to hear about some of your…adventures.”

  They were outside now. It was a rare clear night, but chilly, with a light, icy breeze rolling in from the Sound. Winterhawk settled Lydia’s wrap over her shoulders, then shrugged into his own overcoat. She’d already called her driver; after a moment the sleek white Nightsky pulled silently up and stopped.

  She smiled, waiting for him to open the door for her. “So, what do you say?” she asked, sliding in with practiced ease. “Will you join me for a drink before you go?”

  He moved to follow her into the vehicle, and had only just made it inside before his limbs stopped working properly. His mind began spinning in circles, spitting out random snatches of concepts and phrases that rose up to submerge coherent thought. His last conscious memories were the click of the car’s door closing behind him and Lydia’s widening smile as he pitched forward, his head landing in her silk-clad lap.

  CHAPTER 4

  BLUE MORAY RESTAURANT

  SEATTLE

  THURSDAY NIGHT
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br />   The restaurant was on the edge of Downtown: one of those understated, upscale places most people tend to drive right by unless they’re looking for it. The kind of place where the menus didn’t include prices, and the deals made over cocktails each evening affected the fates of thousands of people and millions of nuyen.

  The unassuming black sedan slid to a stop in front of the walkway leading to the entrance, and the door opened. Winterhawk got out, straightened his coat, and considered his options as the door closed and the car glided off. Once again, the temptation to shift to invisibility, pull a full mask over his aura, and make a run for it was strong. He had the overwhelming feeling that if he walked into that restaurant, something significant was going to change in the course of his life.

  He wasn’t going to run, but he also didn’t have to be stupid about the whole thing. “Maya?”

  “Here.”

  “Check the place out, please. Focus on any private dining or conference rooms, and anyone who looks like they’re hiding or overly watchful. Watch out, as always.”

  He felt her agreement, and then she was gone. He lingered outside, pretending to be paying attention to the commlink he’d taken from the room. Nobody looked oddly at him; without the tuxedo’s bow tie, he just looked like another businessman in a black suit and dark overcoat. A well-dressed couple and a small group of Japanese sararimen walked past him without a glance and disappeared inside.

  Maya touched his mind again. “I see three people in a back room,” she reported. “It’s not warded. There’s a spirit on patrol, but it didn’t see me.” Her voice held pride at this. “Two humans and an elf. One of the humans is sitting at a table, and the other one and the elf are standing behind him. Those two don’t show up very much on the astral plane, and they have guns. The one at the table seems to be watching something.”

  “Probably me,” Winterhawk said dryly. “Well, if they don’t think I’d be checking them out before I march into the lions’ den, they’re fools. All right, then. No more time to stall, I suppose.”

  “Be careful.” The cat’s voice held gentle worry.

  “I’m always careful,” he told her, as he strode up the walkway toward the restaurant.

  “Oh? Is that how you ended up unconscious in a disreputable hotel room, wearing pajamas you normally wouldn’t be caught dead in?”

  “Hush, you.”

  He didn’t give a name to the pale, elegant elven maître d’ standing behind a podium at the front, but he didn’t need to. Apparently he was expected. The elf bowed slightly, indicated for him to follow, and led him back through the restaurant’s dark and tastefully appointed main dining room to a discreetly placed, intricately carved wooden door down a short hallway in the back. He bowed again and departed without a word.

  Winterhawk pushed open the door, and paused in the doorway for a moment. The three figures Maya had reported seeing during her astral examination were all still there: a bland-looking man in a gray, corp-issue suit sat behind an oblong table facing the door, and two others—a human man and an elven woman—stood in the shadows behind him, close enough that it was obvious they were bodyguards, but far enough back so as not to involve themselves in the conversation. Winterhawk had seen this scenario dozens of times before: it was such a cliché configuration for a meet that he was sure they must have done it on purpose.

  The bland man smiled. “Please. Come in. Sit down.” He indicated the chair across from him with a wave of a manicured hand. He was human, handsome, middle-aged. He had the kind of perfect hair, perfect skin, and perfectly pleasant expression that suggested a lot of expensive surgery. He’d probably majored in Blandness in corp school.

  Winterhawk didn’t move. “I don’t think so. I don’t fancy participating in your delusion, whatever it is. If you want something from me, say so. Otherwise, I’ll be on my way.”

  The man’s smile grew wider. “You’re certainly welcome to do that. Neither I nor my associates will stop you. But you might want to hear what I have to say first.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because if you leave this room without hearing my offer, you’ll be dead within a week. And there won’t be anything I or anyone else will be able to do about it, unfortunately.”

  Winterhawk went still, his mind going back to the day he’d lost while he was unconscious, and the words of the mechanical voice.

  Life or death. Yours.

  A day was a long time. A lot of things could happen in a day. A lot of very troubling things, in fact. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, deceptively calm. “What did you do to me?”

  “Sit down, please,” the man repeated. “You can call me Mr. Johnson, by the way. I suppose you knew that already. I know who you are, of course. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard a lot of very interesting stories about you and your adventures over the years.”

  Winterhawk paused. He could try to force the information out of the man, but given that he didn’t have all the facts, that was likely an unwise course of action. Especially with the bodyguards to consider. He might be able to neutralize all three of them—but then again, he might not. Patience for now, then.

  He crossed the room and settled into the offered chair. Leaning back, he folded his arms over his chest and waited.

  “Would you like a drink? Dinner will be served soon. No doubt you’re hungry after your…rest.”

  “I want nothing from you except an explanation. Let’s not waste each other’s time, shall we? Why am I here?” Shifting his perceptions for a moment, he assensed Mr. Johnson. Even his aura was bland. He seemed utterly unruffled, almost to the point of languor. All at once, Winterhawk knew why. “For that matter,” he added, “why am I talking to you? If your boss has something to say to me, bring him out. I don’t deal with lackeys.”

  Mr. Johnson’s demeanor didn’t change, except that he chuckled briefly. “All right, you like to get right to it. That’s fine. I’ll forego the social niceties.” He leaned forward a little. “What I want is very simple, and should be obvious, given the circumstances: I want to hire you to do a job.”

  “Did you hear me? I want to talk to whoever is pulling your strings.”

  Mr. Johnson’s expression was a paternal sort of amusement, the way a father might regard a toddler who’d just done something droll. Once again he continued without acknowledging Winterhawk’s words. “A job,” he said, “which must be completed quickly, and that requires certain skills I’ve been told you possess in abundance.”

  Winterhawk closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and tried another approach. “If that’s true, then why did you bother abducting me? Why not simply contact me through normal channels? Is it because you knew I’d turn you down?”

  Mr. Johnson shrugged. “I don’t see any reason why you would refuse. It’s a fairly straightforward job, similar to those you’ve done in the past. And of course you will be well compensated for your time and talent. I understand that you will have to retain the services of other experts, so you’ll be given a budget for that as well.”

  Winterhawk raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re planning to pay me, then, are you? That’s surprising, actually.” He stood. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your offer, Mr. Johnson. If you know as much about me as you claim to, you must know that I’m not currently seeking that sort of employment. And that’s completely putting aside the whole ‘abduction’ thing. I’m contrary like that: even if I might have been inclined to play along if you’d asked nicely, I’m certainly not now.”

  “You haven’t even heard the offer yet,” Mr. Johnson said, not appearing at all discomfited.

  “I don’t need to hear it. I don’t care what it is. Perhaps you’re new at this game, but for next time you might learn that if you want something from someone, there are better ways go about it.” Winterhawk pushed the chair in, turned his back on the man, and started toward the door.

  Something deep inside him lit up with white-hot pain. The world reele
d as his brain erupted, etching an image of every neural pathway in his body across his mind’s eye, traced with a sudden, brief agony worse than anything he could ever remember experiencing. It only lasted a couple of seconds, there and gone almost before it registered as a pain at all. But worse, far worse, was the influx of psychic disturbance that flooded his brain: visions of unimaginably horrific creatures, flashes of crippling self-doubt, wave after wave of an internal onslaught that tore through his mental defenses as if they were made of paper.

  And then it was over.

  Just like that. Just…gone.

  He found himself on the floor, knees drawn up and hands clutching at his head, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. Gasping, heart pounding, he pushed himself up with shaking arms and looked around.

  Mr. Johnson was still seated behind the table, still sporting the same bland, professionally pleasant smile. The two bodyguards had neither moved nor changed expression; they could have been statues.

  “Bloody hell,” he got out between breaths. “What was—” Mentally, he waved a concerned Maya off, assuring her he was all right.

  “Please,” Mr. Johnson said, as if nothing had changed. “Sit down. Believe me, you don’t want me to do that again, and neither do I. I’ve already taken at least half a day off your allotted time with that demonstration. If you force me to demonstrate again, I’m afraid you won’t have enough time to complete the job before it’s too late.”

  Winterhawk dragged himself back to his feet. His hands tingled with a nearly physical compulsion to gather mana to him and let loose with something devastating and pyrotechnic—something that would sear that insufferable smile from the Johnson’s face, and probably take out a good portion of the room along with it. Instead, teeth gritted and eyes blazing, he resumed his place in his chair. There was no lingering effect from whatever had hit him, save for a slight headache such as he might have gotten if he’d overexerted himself magically. His eyes locked on the Johnson as he waited for his heart rate to slow to something approaching normal. “What have you done to me?”