ranked nowhere on her continuum of what was important. That she knew the name of a CEO seemed about as likely as governors inviting her to dinner.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“I read,” she said cryptically. Then, she added, “And I’m very fond of Anna Burhasa’s writing.”
“Oh,” he said. “Burhasa. I should’ve guessed.”
Of course she’d know about that. Anna Burhasa was a novelist, screenwriter, and poet at the turn of the century, and everything she wrote would be something Jaguar would appreciate. She started out poor and obscure, but the Pulitzer for one of her novels changed all that, and she grew to be very wealthy. Her money started the Burhasa trust fund, an organization that helped 13 Streams get solar technology.
Her personality was as colorful as her writing. She traced her roots back to the ancient Etruscans, and always wore her family crest – a leopard’s face surrounded by grapevine – in her jewelry. She was a political activist, frequently arrested for civil disobedience, and she threw the best parties in any town you cared to name. She traveled the world and wrote about it, took a variety of lovers, male and female, and wrote about that, too. She married three times, and the third marriage lasted until she was shot in the streets of L.A., an old, old woman busy rescuing children during the Killing Times.
Of course Jaguar would know about Anna Burhasa. That meant she’d also know about Larry Barone.
“You know what happened with her second husband?” Jaguar asked. “He accused her of witchcraft when he left her.”
Alex nodded. “The way she wrote, she must’ve been one of us.”
“Naturally. But it didn’t keep her money out of the wrong hands.”
Her second husband, Martin Barone, finagled rights to some of her early works, which she then refused to have published until after her death and his. But Martin’s son by another woman went to court for the proceeds and won. That was Larry’s father, and with the inheritance Larry financed the start of Global Concerns, Inc. If Anna was in a place where she knew her money was financing the Barone empire, Alex thought she’d be royally pissed.
“Larry Rat Fuck Barone,” Jaguar commented. “Alex, does he have friends here?”
“I have Rachel on that, and more. I’ll check on Farley myself. I know Nance, and she won’t mind. First, I’ll have a chat with Paul about moon mining plants.”
Jaguar leaned her elbow on the table, put her chin in her hand. It was late, and she’d been hard at it with her prisoners, but her green eyes were alert, sparking with questions.
“Do you think Paul’s for it?”
“My first guess is no. He’s many unfortunate things, but he’s not a gambler, and he doesn’t like to share turf.”
Jaguar chewed on this thought. “You’re right. So what’ll you do with Farley?”
“Find out what I can,” he said. “Same as you do.”
Her forehead creased in thought. “What’s his testing show?” she asked.
“Thanatos syndrome.”
At this, her aspect darkened further. “Be careful, Alex,” she said, and he raised his eyebrows, surprised. Jaguar advising caution was a new phenomena.
“I mean it,” she continued. “With Thanatos, if he’s been exposed, he’ll be a toxic waste dump. Lunar material - you have to handle it with absolute respect.”
“I know that, Jaguar. And like you, I know how to block unwanted empathic contact. I’m also old enough to vote and drink, choose my bed partners with care –”
She made a low noise at the back of her throat like growling, reached quickly across the table and grasped his wrist. Squeezed hard. Spoke into him.
Do not fuck around with this stuff. It will eat you alive.
Through her hand he felt the power of desire that flowed through the moon, through the tidal pull of blood in veins, through her.
She knew that the oldest wisdom was real. The moon exerted her influence, and if you tried to control or manipulate it without understanding, it would eat you. You had to take care, stay in balance with it, and with yourself. The moon was no more dangerous than a woman, in and of itself, but to play with either disrespectfully was potentially deadly. The Death Sisters were testimony to that.
Through her hand he could feel the tidal pull of it, a power she would let flow through and out of her. He knew the discipline it took to resist using that power, and he only hoped he could do the same. Power was as seductive as love or fear.
“You be careful, too, Jaguar,” he said softly. “It’s already in you.”
She turned a slow smile toward him. “It’s different,” she said. “I’m a woman. The moon’s cellular for me.”
“But politics and corporate scamming aren’t,” he said. “Far from it. So I repeat, be careful. Don’t make big moves without letting me know.”
“And you - will you let me know what you’re doing? What you know?”
“I will, Jaguar. I promise. Unless I’m physically prevented, I will.”
“All right,” she said. “Okay.” She stood and stretched her long arms toward the ceiling, breathed in and out deeply.
“Back to work,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”
And quietly as wind, she was gone, leaving Alex to brood further over his coffee, his job, and the imprint of her fingers on his wrist.
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