The Annihilation Score Read Free Page A

their agencies.”
    The thing about Ramona is, she’s a professional in the same line of work as me and thee. She’s an old hand: formerly an OCCINT asset enchained by the Black Chamber, now cut loose and reunited with the distaff side of her family tree—the inhuman one. She is proven by her presence here this evening to be a player in the game of spies, squishy-versus-scaly subplot, sufficiently trusted by BLUE HADES that they’re willing to parade her around in public. She must have given them extraordinarily good reasons to trust her, such excellent reasons that I am now beginning to think that uninviting her to my wedding all those years ago was a strategic mistake. Time to rebuild damaged bridges, I think.
    â€œYes, we really ought to do lunch some time soon,” I say. “We could talk about, oh, joint fisheries policy or something.”
    â€œYes, that. Or maybe cabbages and kings, and why there are so many superheroes in the news this week?”
    â€œMovies?” My turn to raise an eyebrow: “I know they were all the rage in Hollywood—”
    She frowns, and I suddenly realize I’ve missed an important cue. “Don’t be obtuse, Mo.” She takes another carefully measured sip of champagne: I have to admire her control, even if I don’t much like being around her because of what her presence reminds me of. “Three new outbreaks last week: one in London, one in Manchester, and one in Merthyr Tydfil. That last one would be Cap’n Coal, who, let me see, ‘wears a hard hat and tunnels underground to pop up under the feet of dog-walkers who let their pooches foul the pavement.’” She smacks her lips with fishy amusement. “And then there was the bonded warehouse robbery at Heathrow that was stopped by Officer Friendly.” I blink, taken aback.
    â€œI haven’t been following the news,” I admit. “I spent the past few weeks getting over jet lag.”
Jet lag
is a euphemism, like an actor’s
resting
between theatrical engagements.
    â€œWas that your business trip to Vakilabad?”
    Her eyes widen as I grab her wrist. “Stop.
Right now.
” Her pupils are not circular; they’re vertical figure eights, an infinity symbol stood on end. I feel as if I’m falling into them, and the ward on my discreet silver necklace flares hot. My grip tightens.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mo,” she says, quite sincerely, the ward cooling. She looks shaken. Maybe she got a bit of a soul-gaze in before my firewall kicked her out of my head.
    â€œWhere did you hear about Vakilabad?” I need to know: there’s talking shop at a reception, and then there’s this, this
brazen
—
    â€œWeekly briefing report from Callista Soames in External Liaison,” she says quietly. “I’m the equivalent, um, desk officer, for Downstairs. We share, too.”
    â€œSharing.” I lick my suddenly dry lips and raise my glass: “Here’s to sharing.” I do not, you will note, propose a toast to
over
-sharing. Or choose to share with her the details of the Vakilabad job, requested by the Iranian occult intelligence people, or the week-longsleeping-pills-and-whisky aftermath it hit me with because
bodies floating in the air, nooses dangling limply between their necks and the beam of the gallows, glowing eyes casting emerald shadows as dead throats chanted paeans of praise to an unborn nightmare
—I shudder and accidentally knock back half my glass in a single gulp.
    â€œAre you all right?” she asks, allowing her perfect forehead to wrinkle very slightly in a show of concern.
    â€œ
Of course
I’m not all right,” I grump. There’s no point denying what she can see for herself. “Having a bit of a low-grade crisis, actually, hence someone penciling me in for the cocktail circuit by way of a change of pace.”
    â€œTrouble at home?” She gives me her best sympathetic