The Administration Series (85 page)

Carnac was in two minds as to whether this was a minus or a plus. Taking the broader view, it did Keir no good to be tied to someone so manifestly unsuitable. One might even construe it as doing him a favour. A little short-term pain for a greater long-term gain.

He smiled thinly and poured a second glass of wine. Looking beyond the levels of rationalisation, he foresaw a highly pleasing result: it would be a most satisfying recompense for the unpleasantness of the demonstration interrogation.

Despite her resolution, Sara let the rest of the week go past in worrying and formulating dead-end plans. She had at least, via a friend of a friend of a friend on the admin network, discovered that Carnac was expected back at Socioanalysis sometime next week. Unfortunately, the pressure of a looming deadline didn't cause any great ideas to spring to mind.

It didn't help that the atmosphere in the office was so . . . pleasant. Friendly. It was only occasionally that she caught Toreth looking, if not unhappy, then at least a little preoccupied. Not that she got to speak to him much. Carnac was monopolising his coffee breaks, and she wondered if he was deliberately keeping Toreth away from her.

It was Friday again before she found something that might count as inspiration. There was one sure-fire way to get Toreth to sit up and take notice. One thing that could snap him out of this awful downwards spiral of intimacy. She really ought to have thought of it before. Maybe the idea of using his feelings as a lever felt too much like what Carnac was doing to him. But she was doing it to help, not to play mind-fuck games.

That wouldn't make him any less pissed off if he found out.

Productivity suffered in the afternoon as she considered the plan from as many angles as she could, finally deciding it was acceptable. Although, right now so would be pretty much anything that seemed to have even half a chance of working.

Still, she had an approach. And, even better, she had the perfect tool to exploit it.

The next question was, when should she try? Should she leave it until next week? The idea of letting Carnac have free rein to screw with Toreth for any longer made her grind her teeth, but on the other hand, if everything went horribly wrong, it would be a disaster to have the two of them in the same office for any longer than was necessary.

It had taken Carnac longer than he had anticipated to work Toreth round to the invitation. It was late on Saturday evening when he finally achieved his goal and stepped through the doorway. He had had to manipulate more than he'd really wanted to, but he didn't feel that he had broken any rules. If Toreth gave it any thought he would be certain that the invitation was his own idea, even if he might have trouble explaining to himself why he'd wanted to extend it.

The flat was a mess, which had been one of the two possibilities — this, or obsessive tidiness. If he could have found anyone willing to take such a sure bet, he would happily place a large sum on Toreth's parents' home being show-house perfect. If he recalled correctly, Warrick's home had been extremely tidy. An interesting parallel there which he might point out to Toreth later.

"Do you want a drink?" Toreth asked.

"Coffee, thanks." That would, at least, involve boiling water and so might not actually constitute a health hazard.

"Bedroom's through there."

Carnac could take a hint, and besides, he was curious.

The bedroom proved to be less of a mess than the small living room, and to have some unusual fixtures. Bolts had been set in the wall, although without the chains they were plainly designed to anchor. Presumably those were kept somewhere out of sight. Leather straps hung from the bed head and foot. All rather uncomfortable-looking, and not really Carnac's thing.

Opening a wardrobe, he found the contents neat and well ordered. On reflection, the brief surprise lessened. Smart clothing was a necessary part of the facade Toreth presented to the outside world, his unimpeachable physical and sartorial shield. Plenty of worn clothes lay scattered on the floor where they had been discarded. Snake skins, his mind supplied whimsically. Carnac recalled a psychology tutor who had maintained that a person's home was a direct reflection of their state of mind; he would have been absolutely enthralled by Toreth's flat.

Carnac looked around the room, at the positioning of the furniture, and took a guess as to where the rest of the bondage equipage might be found. When he opened the drawer, he discovered a box that contained a rather expensive-looking set of chains, metal wristbands, and a metal collar that looked positively painful. There were also more leather straps, blindfolds, a gag or two, and two pairs of handcuffs that had probably made an unauthorised escape from I&I.

Warrick must find the arrangement quite satisfactory indeed.

"See anything you like the look of?"

He hadn't heard Toreth come in. He closed the drawer and turned round. "Not really."

Toreth smiled, handing him a coffee. "No? I thought you might have."

Just for a moment, Carnac wondered what it would be like. It would be an excellent opportunity to try the experience, because he was certain Toreth would be very good at it. Then he dismissed the idea. Fucking or being fucked by I&I's finest was one thing. Allowing them to immobilise one first required an entirely different level of trust, and one he couldn't manufacture.

"No," he said, more firmly.

Toreth merely nodded. He stood for a moment, looking at the bolts in the wall, blowing on his coffee. Then he turned back to Carnac and smiled. "So, do you want to fuck?"

Toreth couldn't sleep, which considering what a night they'd made of it was fairly astonishing. He lay in bed and listened to Carnac breathing next to him (snoring, actually, which he really should've expected), and stared sightlessly at the ceiling until he had to accept that he was awake, and going to stay that way.

Getting up, he located a pair of trousers and went to hunt through the fridge for something to drink. He found and threw out a couple of containers of no longer fresh juice that Warrick had left behind last time he'd been there. In the end he had to settle for something processed that might, at one time in its long life, have been somewhere near a grapefruit.

He also discovered a carton of takeaway noodles of uncertain ancestry, still with a fork in it. That sort of thing drove Warrick mad, but as far as Toreth was concerned, it just meant that the cutlery was already with the food when he needed it.

Like now. Sitting on the floor by the fridge, he picked through the noodles and tried to work out what was wrong.

He felt strange, as though the ground was shifting under his feet. Lots of little things felt wrong, and somehow they added up to this formless worry stopping him from sleeping.

It felt wrong that Carnac was here, in his flat. He couldn't even remember how or why he'd invited him back. It didn't really matter, in an absolute sense. It was out of place and disturbing, though, all the more so since Carnac was here and Warrick wasn't.

Then there was a constant niggle of annoyance that he couldn't go to Warrick's. Normally he didn't worry about not seeing him for a day or two. Or even longer, although they'd been seeing a lot of each other lately. Maybe that was the problem — the regular thing turning into a habit. It might be no bad thing not to see him for a while.

It would serve Warrick right, because he'd been completely unreasonable about the whole thing. Then the memory of last Sunday came back, making him feel even more unsteady and off-balance. Warrick so cold, really angry — it hadn't bothered him until now, but . . .

Something else wrong: Carnac in the office yesterday. Reading the screen from behind him, one hand kneading Toreth's shoulder, the other reaching down to rub his cock through his trousers. Bizarrely, he almost hadn't noticed what Carnac was doing until it had felt so good that it triggered some instinct, something like his current disquiet, and he'd tried to pull away. But Carnac had slid his hand round his shoulder to hold him back and murmured, "Don't move. I know you like it."

So he hadn't moved. Instead he'd closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment, until he'd come into Carnac's hand, arching against the arm across his chest and saying . . . Carnac's name? But that was too bizarre. He couldn't have done it — his memory was playing tricks.

Besides, whatever he'd said, it was stupid to feel uneasy about it. He should be grateful that the man had turned out to be less annoying than he'd seemed at first, as well as a rather better fuck. He was even becoming tolerable to talk to. Earlier in the week they'd discussed Sara — nothing he specifically remembered, but Carnac seemed to like her, or at least appreciate her efficiency, which was always good to hear. Toreth valued his reputation as someone who could attract the best to his team.

Carnac would be gone soon, anyway. He'd mentioned next week as the end of the investigation. After that Toreth would have his office back to himself. He couldn't remember if Carnac had ever said where he was based. The Socioanalysis Division Centre at Strasbourg, he'd always assumed, insofar as he'd ever thought about it.

The Administration could send Carnac anywhere they liked, of course, or he could be on to his freelance time after this job. Either way, he might well be in New London. And available.

It wouldn't be entirely a bad thing to see him again. Sometime. There wouldn't be any need to mention it to Warrick. Maybe he'd ask during the week sometime where Carnac was going next.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling.

'I know you like it.'

Carnac had no business knowing something like that.

Sara stood around the corner from the entrance to Toreth's flat, drinking out of a quarter bottle of vodka and hating every mouthful. God, it was revolting stuff neat, but she didn't have the leisure for mixers. The problem with Toreth was that there was no point pretending about something like being drunk. He'd see through it in a minute. So she had to
be
drunk, but still capable of following the plan.

The other problem was that she would have to lie, quite a lot, about what she knew and how she knew it. She had everything prepared and corroborated, ready in the unlikely event that he'd check, but he was too damn good at spotting lies to make it a comfortable idea. And if he worked out what she was doing . . . no. Don't think about that.

It was for his own good.

It would have a been a lot easier and far more pleasant to have done this in stages over the evening, in the normal way. Except that that would've been too much like admitting she was going through with it. Besides, she'd spent most of the evening sorting out her alibis and getting the story straight. So, here she was, downing spirits on an empty stomach. At least that would mean she'd need to drink less of the stuff.

When she'd had a quarter of the bottle, she used the next mouthful to wash down a couple of tablets she'd wangled from Daedra Kincaidy in the pharmacy. She'd feel like seventeen kinds of shit in the morning, but some things had to be done. As she kept drinking, the alcohol settled into her limbs and tongue, but the focus of her thoughts sharpened. Drunk around the edges and sober in the middle. Daedra had come through on this one.

When she felt convincingly plastered, she dropped the bottle into a waste recycler and let herself into the building. She could have let herself into his flat as well, but she didn't like to, when he was there. There was no answer on the comm, for such a long time that she began to worry that he wasn't even in. Why hadn't she checked?

God, it was horrible being sober enough to feel yourself being drunk.

Just when she was about to resort to banging on the door, he opened it. "Sara? Are you all right?"

She caught herself thinking, how sweet, and had to fight down an urge to giggle. Concentrate.

"I changed my code," she said. "For home. And now I've forgotten it. Can't get in."

He looked over his shoulder, and she realised straight away what that meant. The shock nearly sobered her completely.

Carnac was here, in his flat. In his
flat
. Toreth never, ever invited his fucks back home. Unless you counted Warrick, which of course you didn't. What if she was too late again and he'd said or done something really stupid?

Please, please, please God, let Carnac be asleep.

"'M really sorry." She leaned against the doorframe, half an act and half needing the support. "Can I crash, an' I'll sort it out in the morning?"

"Yeah, of course you can."

He took her through to the living room, cleared junk from the sofa and disappeared in search of bedding. Moving very quietly, she noticed. She wondered if he could be embarrassed by Carnac's being here. It seemed unlikely. It hadn't bothered him the couple of times she'd slept — or rather not slept — here, with Warrick doing his well-screwed cat impersonation in the bedroom, and she somehow couldn't imagine Carnac as very vocal.