She considered his point. As a fey/human hybrid, Sinclair was unique. That was why his grandfather created the spelled medallion for him—to hide his true nature. The jotunn knew enough about the fey and humans in the Convergent world to know that his grandson would have been poked, prodded, and tested. Social integration moved slowly in most parts of the world. Biological interbreeding would speed things up considerably, and that was something many people would find appealing—and others horrifying. “He’s got a target on his back simply because of who he is, Jono. Sound familiar?” she asked.
He glanced at her with lowered eyes. “It’s different.”
Exasperated, Laura slumped into the guest chair. “Jono, give me one week of no conflict. Do the job we both know you can do.”
He grinned. “Was that a compliment?”
She pursed her lips. “If I say yes, can we drop the subject?”
He spun in his chair, then leaned on the desk. “If I say yes, can we go out for dinner?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
He frowned. “Wait, I lost track. Is that ‘yes, that was a compliment’ or ‘yes, we can have dinner’?”
She stood. “It was ‘yes, this conversation is over.’ ”
His frown deepened into playful confusion. “I think I’m a yes behind.”
She leaned toward him with a smug, playful smile. “That’s because I’m one step ahead of you.”
He threw another ball of paper at her. She snatched it out of the air and threw it back. “Do you want to review your strategy with Legacy?”
He shrugged. “What’s to review? Show up. Act like I don’t like the fey—which won’t be tough—take notes, and leave.”
“Where were you born?” she asked.
“Philadelphia.”
She shook her head. “Wrong. Never use your own data for a persona.”
“Persona? You’re going to make me a glamour?” he asked.
“No, but you’re still undercover. That’s as much a persona as a glamoured persona. You need to be convincing. You are going to get to know these guys like friends. You don’t know how long you’re going to be there. You need to create a credible life for yourself that has no connection to who you really are. When it’s all over, you don’t want to leave anything behind that might lead to the real you.”
“The real me,” he said.
“The real you,” she said.
He cocked his head at her. “Is this the real you I’m talking to right now?”
She blinked. Not the question she was expecting. In the brief pause, a cascade of thoughts and emotions sped through her mind. Yes. No. What? Of course. But . . . He’s baiting me. No, it’s fair given the context. Ouch. Talk about pushing a button. How dare he? Is he serious or playing with me? Again. “Ha-ha,” she said. It was the best she could come up with, and she felt stupid for it.
Sinclair’s measured look said he wasn’t sure how to interpret the response. With a subtle flick of his eyebrows, he decided to let it pass. “Okay, so I need a better cover than a name.”
“Cress can help you build a legal framework in case someone decides to look into your history. She’s good. Excellent, in fact. Your job is to build the personality—who you loved or hated, your favorite books and movies, what you like to eat. Drill it into your memory and stick to it. The slightest lapse can be trouble, so keep it simple but keep it . . .”
“Real,” he finished.
“Yes.”
A faint smile creased his face. “This is what you do every day?”
She shook her head. “Not every day. Most jobs only require an occasional appearance. Only deep cover takes over your life.”
He laughed. “I’ve been driving limos every day for two months.”
She smiled. “But you didn’t need a persona for it, just a name. As Bill Burrell, limo driver, you’ve been interacting with low-level Legacy staff briefly. The job doesn’t require that you interject yourself into the workings of someone’s life. You get to be Bill Burrell and go home at night. It’s different now that they’re letting you in deeper. You become someone else. Start by creating a job history. What did you do before you drove limos?”
He pursed his lips. “Circus performer.”
She didn’t laugh. “Too contrived.”
“It was a joke,” he said.
She compressed her lips. “I know you think it was, Jono, but you need to understand something. I take this seriously, and you need to take this seriously. When you’ve proved you can do the job, then you can joke.”
It was his turn to get annoyed. “I’m getting tired of all this ‘proving myself’ bullshit.”
“It’s hard. I know. But it’s that way because the stakes are high. A mistake can cost lives. Look what happened on the road this morning. You have to show you won’t get yourself killed. That’s the first step. Then you have to show that you can be relied on not to get a teammate killed.”
“I didn’t ask for this. You screwed up, not me,” he said.
She winced at the truth of it. “You’re right. You exposed me. I didn’t know my body signature had a shape that doesn’t change because I’m wearing a glamour. I never anticipated that someone could sense that shape like you can. But I didn’t let those mistakes get me killed. Now I’m trying to show Terryn and Cress and whoever else cares that those mistakes aren’t going to get them killed. And the only way I can do that is to help you succeed at this. If you’re telling me you don’t want to do it, then you need to decide whether you like your hell hot or cold because Terryn will send you somewhere extremely unpleasant whether you like it or not.”
“And you’re okay with that,” he said.
Sighing, she shook her head. “Not in the least, and I will do whatever it takes to make it not happen.”
He smirked. “So you’ll have dinner with me?”
“Yes, as long as you understand it has nothing to do with anything else.”
He smiled. “Night watchman.”
She smiled back and settled into his guest chair. “Better. Now, let’s bring Bill Burrell to life.”
CHAPTER 7
WITH SINCLAIR SLUMPED half-asleep in the passenger seat the next morning, Laura pulled her SUV into a parking space a half block away from Fallon Moor’s apartment building. She turned off the engine, let the seat back to make more leg room, and picked up her coffee from the console. The pale dawnlight revealed a flat-front, nondescript building in a muted shade of brick in a line of similar row houses. It had no distinct architectural character, but the location near Logan Circle was pricey enough to warrant its appeal.
The morning commute coasted past the SUV on the left, traffic moving at the speed limit at the early hour. Within a few minutes of parking, it started to slow, as the traffic began its gradual build for the day. Early risers made their way along the sidewalks, coffee cups and briefcases in hand, their faces neutral except for the occasional avid cell-phone talker. Another typical day in a typical city neighborhood with the noted exception of its being home to an international terrorist.
Sinclair slouched in the passenger seat. That a grown man with rugged good looks seemed like a little boy when asleep amused her. She wanted to smooth the worry line off his forehead but resisted the urge. They were working. “Am I going to handle this myself, or are you going to wake up?” she asked.
Sinclair shifted sideways in his seat, his eyes open to slits. “It’s so nice to wake up next to you.”
She chuckled into her coffee. “Yeah, if you actually, you know, woke up.”
He reached for his coffee. “You drilled me half the night. Even I think I’m Bill Burrell now.”
She smirked. “Be glad you only had to do a history. It’s worse when you have to bring some kind of expertise to the job.”
He snorted. “Well, I think I’m bringing some expertise to the job.”
A motion near Moor’s building caught Laura’s eye, and she cocked her head for a clearer line of sight. A man in a maintenance uniform stepped out and swept the sidewalk. She leaned back. “I’ve had to learn languages for missions. I became a qualified English professor for one. I’ve been on archaeological digs, and no one questioned my knowledge. There’s a difference, Jono, between behaving like someone and becoming that person. You’re using existing skills and memorizing a life history you can create on the fly. You can’t do that every time.”