City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) Read Free Page B

combination of unreproducible circumstances, a particular time, a particular place, a particular urgency ... If he gives her anything it will be because of some horrid sense of obligation, not because he wants her here, or has any real use for her.
    “Miss Aiah," he says, and approaches. The voice is baritone, a rumble that vibrates to her toes. Aiah remembers— remembers in her nerves, remembers deep in her bones— the way he moves, the sense of power held barely but firmly, consciously, in check, strength mixed oddly with delicacy.
    “We find ourselves in the Owl Wing,” Constantine says. Irony glints in his voice as he steps around the big table. “Those windows” — gesturing— “are supposed to be the eyes of an owl.”
    Aiah is tall, but Constantine is taller, broad-shouldered, with powerful arms and a barrel chest. His skin is blue-black, and his hair is oiled and braided and worn over the left shoulder, tipped with the silver ornament of the School of Radritha. He is over sixty years of age, but plasm rejuvenation treatments have kept his body young and at the peak of health. His face is a bit fleshy, a suggestion of indulgence that serves to make him more interesting than otherwise, and his booted feet glide over the thick carpet without a sound.
    The deep voice rolls on, imitating the clipped delivery of a tour guide. “We also have the Raptor Wing,” he says, “the Swan Wing, with its luxury apartments, and the Crane Wing. . . .” His eyes never leave hers, his intent mind almost visible behind them, clearly considering subjects more vital than a verbal tour of the palace.
    The voice trails off as he comes within arm’s reach. There is a touch of caution in his fierce glance, a sense again of something withheld. A decision, perhaps. Or judgment. Or both.
    “May I ask why you are here?” he says.
    Aiah’s heart is a trip-hammer in her throat. Mistake, she thinks, mistake.
    “To work, I suppose,” she says.
    He smiles, and Aiah concludes it’s the right answer. A sudden wave of relief makes her dizzy.
    He opens his arms and folds her in them. His scent swirls through her senses, and she realizes how much she’s missed it.
    Absurd to care so much, she thinks. Constantine is a great figure, a part of something huge, much bigger than even he— he does not belong even to himself, let alone to her.
    Aiah tells herself this, and sternly.
    But her lecture has nothing to do with her longings. Her longings are self-contained, and happy within themselves.
    Through the embrace Aiah can feel Constantine’s weight shifting slightly, a sign of restlessness. He is not a notably patient man. She releases him, steps back.
    Still he watches her, fierce intelligence afire within the gold-flecked brown eyes. “The police?” he says. “Were they after you?”
    “Yes," she says, then, “No. Maybe.” She shrugs. “They knew I was a part of it somehow, but I don’t know if they could prove it. They had me under surveillance.”
    “You got away without trouble?”
    “I got away." She hesitates. “I had some help. I think. It was easier than I expected.”
    “What of your young man? Gil?”
    She straightens her shoulders, steels herself against the threat of sorrow.
    “Over,” she says.
    “And your job at the Plasm Authority?”
    “I wired them and told them I was taking time off.” She shrugs. “I don’t know why I didn’t resign outright.”
    There is amusement in his glance. “You are cautious, Miss Aiah. Wise of you, not to quit until you discover if you have a new job waiting.”
    She looks at him. “And do I?”
    “I think I have one that will suit your talents.” He puts his hands in his jacket pockets and begins to prowl around the table, his restless movement an accompaniment to the uneasy movement of his thought.
    “ You know that the last government was worse than bad,” he says. “They were corrupt beyond . . . beyond reason .” He waves a big hand. "Even granted that they were