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Junior Minister of Security, Jessica Whitwell glared at the newspaper. Despite the fact that it was not the newspaper’s fault for the headline The Times of London had chosen the flimsy papers still shook with what in a living creature would certainly be considered dread.
“Naturally he failed to mention my assistance.” the sentence didn’t contain any excessive punctuation or capitalization, and yet it was pronounced like it should have. And with the dictation of some queen of old: undirected, not addressed at anyone in particular. If anything, it was aimed at the poor innocent newspaper and – far less innocently – the smug, stupid, irritation, reasonably handsome face of the Chief of Major Crimes – one Henry Duvall - plastered across it.
She skimmed the equally offending article about eh capture and arrest of several Czech spies. Spies he wouldn’t have caught without her information. Spies she still was waiting for him to turn over custody of. That had been a hard won battle. Duvall, insisted that the police were perfectly capable of getting information out of prisoners. It was a truth only in the technicality. After all, the last time that the police had interrogated anyone they had gotten lots and lots of utterly worthless information.
She examined the rough wood cut with a critical eye. He needed to grow a beard. He’s face was just too narrow without it. Then, with a flick of her wrist the newspaper was consigned to the fire, emotionlessly wat. Minister Ashe didn’t wait for her response. He just gave her a moment than entered.
“Whitwell, did you hear abo--,“ his eyes followed her glare to the burning newspaper. “Clearly you did. I take it our locating that nest went unmentioned.”
“Not a word.” She agreed. “We shall have to make our own statement. We cannot let him have all the credit for something that was mostly our” Jessica Whitwell was perfectly capable of using that all-encompassing ‘our’ as well “office’s work.”
Ashe stroked that horrible little goatee of his. It would need to be a proper full beard. Noted the softer parts of her brain. “I’ll just slip down to the press liaison’s office and set that up. Meanwhile, I want to stay on top of this little nest – that code they were using wasn’t amateur work. And keep me updated!”
“Yes sir. I’s expecting Officer Duvall to transfer custody to me soon.”
“Hey there little red riding hood.” That Halloween costume had been a mistake. A mistake she was never ever going to repeated. Jessica Whitwell had already purchased a single, black, witch’s hat to prevent any festive mistakes going forward.
Duvall was either far braver or stupider than the rest of his sex. He did not wither and retreat under the glare she fixed him. The fact he was clearly going to have a scar on one cheek did little to help settle the brave v stupid issue. At least it would lean into the rugged look he was always attempting.
“Would you like to repeat the end of that story? Where little red riding hood guts the wolf, stuffs him with stones, and then tosses him the river to drown? The Thames is right outside.”
“There are a couple of other endings you know.” Qualifying the look, he had as a leer would mean acknowledging the Incident in the Closet. She settled for another withering look.
“You can read?” he opened his mouth in protest, but she continued changing the subject before his retort was said. “Because you obviously cannot count. Our information was that the cell contained five individuals. I only received paperwork for three.”
“I guess your information was wrong – we only found three. And it’s not like one went out some back door. We didn’t give them the time.” He grinned at her smugly. “I think I win this round.”
Translation: “We kicked in the door after doing minimal surveillance and thus have no idea if you’re missing insurgents were out for coffee, groceries, or lawless activity. I win our little bet and plan to relieve the Incident in the Closet as my winnings.”
“Bite me.” It just slipped out. He often had that effect on her control. The next thing out of his mouth was going to be something disgusting like -
“What? Not even going to lock your office door first?” He leaned in close. The normal faint musky scent that clung to him was nearly overpowered by a sharp spicy blend of something containing cardamom, ginger, and a significant amount of cloves.
Resisting the urge to either take a step back (and concede to letting him pin her against her desk) or pick up the stupid silver paperweight and hit him with it – service that it would be to humanity – Jessica crossed her arms and held her chin up. “Why do you smell like someone upended a spice rack on your head?”
“Evidence box got knocked over when one of my catches tried to bolt while we were loading them into the van.” He was no close enough to her that there was no polite explanation and leaned in a little more.
Lightning fast she grabbed his chin. “You, still owe me two missing spies; which means the game is still on. But because I play fair – “she ignored his snort “I am willing to let you sit in on the interrogations. Because I am value fair play.”
“And the two missing spies had been out getting ‘real’ coffee when the police huffed and puffed and kicked the door inward.” Jessica later found herself explaining to the perfectly manicured head of PR Theophania. “Apparently even Czech spies have enough taste to get sick of Gold Brew”
The public relations expert took a sip of her tea and made an appropriate noise of exasperation. “That will affect the statement I send to the press about our integral contribution to the interdepartmental cooperation that was required to append these villains.” And then that perfect nose crinkled up into an utterly unladylike expression. “Err, Ms. Jessica? Do you smell wet dog?”
The lie rolled off her tongue without a second of hesitation. “Officer Duvall fell into the Well of Remorse. Shubit was forced to fish him out, before he could contaminate it. The smell seems to be clinging to it.” Even as practiced at misdirection she was, there was something in Theophania’s eyes that suggested the excuse wasn’t quite believed.
But whatever she actually believed, the head of PR kept it to herself. So instead of doing or saying anything that contradicted Jessica, she simply reached out and picked up her little blue flower speckled teapot. “Would you like a cup? I’m trying a new blend - Autumn Haze - and have found it very good.”
“Very well.” She held out her reasonably empty coffee mug. That tea did smell good. Some delicate chai thing; Jessica could pick out ginger, cardamom and cloves. It almost reminded her of a more potent version of the incense blend that she used when summoning Shubit, something like whatever spices had gotten dumped over Duvall’s –
She slammed the mug down on the table. “Theia. Do you know where Minister Ashe is?”
Jessica ran faster than she had ever thought was possible. By some sick amusement of the Universe, Minister Ashe had gotten himself a mistress who lived within a dozen blocks of the Tower. Only in this case the only thing that helped was that she’d known almost immediately that her imp was far too late.
She should have seen it at once – and certainly that she had realized it almost at once would be the public story. Five well trained insurgents, incense spices. It wouldn’t need all five to control the thing once it had been properly bound.
The building looked fine from the outside. Maybe the windows on whatever-her-name’s floor where unusually dark for the hour, but there was always the chance to occupant could be out at the time. The doorman was surely just out of sight for a moment.
She’d barely had to flick her wrist and Shubit had the door open. Cautiously, she stepped into the lobby: headily decorated in creams and gold. Dark leafy plants stood here and there around low comfortable looking benches that one could lazily seat themselves on to wait for a friend or for their ride. It wasn’t quite the ridiculous levels of overindulgent that some of her colleagues and the richest commoners fell into, but it still fell well within the authority of the word ‘tacky’.
“The Lobby is clear now Ma’am.” Came the subdued drawl of her demon. “But something powerful did pass through here not too long ago. Its left a trail – like heavy brine through a fresh water source Ma’am. I very much doubt that Minister Ashe or Ms. Dottie are still, as you might say, with us.”
She had already known she was too late to save Ashe. Neutralizing the summoned menace however would go a long way to securing her win against Duvall. As, naturally, a minor victory in her securing the Security Ministership from any other contenders.
Up the stairs they went. Shubit first; trailing after that apparently cold and salty aura. When nothing contested them at the first floor landing they started up the stairs to the second floor. They repeated the process on each floor as they slowly ascended the building from the second floor to the third; from third to the fourth all the way up to the sixth floor.
She pushed the door open to landing. The hallway was eerily silent. Lights flickering on and off and random intervals. The light fixtures, plants and statuary that in normal lighting would be utterly banal threw monstrous shadows across the walls.
“Ms. Dottie’s apartment is number 13.” Shubit’s voice – always rather quiet and subdued – was barely more than a whisper. He’d waited until they were standing outside the pitch black doorway. The door itself had been ripped clean off the hinges. The faint glow from the remains of torn and scattered wards hung limply in the opening. The thorns, or torn barbed wire.
Something touched her shoulder.
She spun, hand shooting out of its own volition. Duvall caught her wrist hard enough to bruise.
“Got your imp. Mostly by luck, I would swear it was trying to wait until I’d left the office.”
“Imps have such poisonous little minds.” She pulled her hand free and gestured at the black doorway. “After you Officer.”
In the end, Shubit was sent in first. Followed by Duvall and his torch. Jessica’s own lenses cut through the darkness better than the thin streak of illuminating light. Which only added to her worry. A flashlight shouldn’t just illuminate what its beam fell upon, but the area in general. Something was suppressing the light.
The apartment had been destroyed. Upturned furniture: shattered splintered piles of wood and upholstery that used to be furniture. There was no sign of life – or the remains of such – in the open concept dining room and kitchen. The only thing that moved was the torn and charred drapes, stirring in the forlorn wind from a broken picture window.
Duvall went for the bedroom door. He grabbed the handle: Shubit’s warning came just a fraction too late.
The door exploded off its hinges slamming Duvall into and then partially through the wall. A boiling mass she could only get the contours of followed the door: man-shaped, but too tall with claws and talons greenish-grey flames dripping from all across what little of its body she could see.
It whirled, just as quickly as it had appeared, and grabbed at her. It caught Shubit instead. With barely a hint of effort it had thrown her demon clear out the broken window. And then it grabbed her. It reeked of bogs and old blood. A slit of darkness filled with green-grey fire opened bearing down on her head.
“Mordicant. Hold.” Called a woman with a thick Czech accent. “I will ask her a few question first.”
Demons where excellent pouters. “She had an afrit. Question the wolf.” The voice didn’t seem to come from the gapping maw inches from her, but from somewhere else. Far away and echoy, like the bottom of a well.
The Czech magician strolled out of the bedroom like she owned the apartment. “Oh please. As the English might say, ‘I have the high ground.’” She flipped long hair over one shoulder. “Besides, whoever you slammed into that wall is most certainly dead.”
“Wolves heal fast. If he’d gone out the window - ”
Its advice was met with a foot stamp. “I didn’t summon you to advise me demon. I summoned you to – “
Whatever the Czech magician had called her demon to do, was lost to history. Jessica’s void took out the summoner, the remains of the kitchen, and a fair bit of the wall. The anti-noise and anti-light of the void’s creation blanked out her senses for a moment.
Probably why she hallucinated that in the second it had left before the loss of its primary anchor sent it back to the Other Place, the marid grinned horribly at her. Than let go to give a little salute.
Her vision returned, as the lights began flickering back on.
She stood by the low wall Duvall had sat himself upon after the EMT’s fit his arm in a sling. Otherwise he’d apparently been fine, if strongly urged to go to the hospital. They watched as the EMT’s loaded a blubbering what’s-her-face into an ambulance. Shubit was back hovering at her shoulder. It had flown back through the window too late to be useful, but too soon to be certain it was intentional.
“I think its safe to say that I won.”
“You’re insane.” Was the answer she got. “A void in a confined space. Madwoman.”
She turned her head ready to glower at him, but Duvall had a vicious grin. “You know,” he continued. “Even though you did win with that stunt, can I make a request? Oh acting Security Minister.”
“No. Just because you emphasized acting. I will not put that costume back on.”
“Damn.”