Read Online Midnight's Angels - 03 by Tony Richards - Free Book Online
Authors: Tony Richards
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this planet. I have wealth and the community’s respect. Power, both judicial and paranormal. And despite that, I feel wholly shackled by my own mortality. Isn’t that odd?”
“Being an adept doesn’t stop you being human,” I told him. “Welcome to the club.”
The man stared at me wordlessly for a few seconds and then pulled a face and shrugged.
* * *
It took Ritchie another half hour to show up, so he’d obviously spent a while making sure that he could leave his people to cope for themselves. But finally we heard a car pull up, the doorbell chime, and then Fleur Levin let him in.
When he walked into the study, I got a mild shock. He had transformed somewhat from the hard-nosed, fiery young sergeant I had come to know. He was slightly hunched, his eyes downcast, his every movement under tight control. His manner overly respectful. And I immediately saw what this was. Damn it, if he’d owned a cap, he’d have it clasped between his fingers and been fiddling with the brim right now.
It was Levin he was nervous of. And perhaps I should have been expecting this. It was the typical relationship between most of the ordinary townsfolk -- who only practiced magic occasionally -- and people like the judge who had been born to it and used it all the time. The former was extremely wary and respectful of the latter.
That doesn’t apply to me, since I’ve never practiced magic, the same way my folks refused to when they were alive. I think it’s playing silly games with the natural rules, and refuse to be cowed by it. Okay, it is a pretty impressive form of power, startling at times. But power -- on its lonesome -- doesn’t get my vote.
Ritchie Vallencourt, on the other hand, wouldn’t even meet the judge’s eyes. He introduced himself quietly, then added, “It’s a great honor to meet you, sir.”
And when Levin reached out to grasp his hand, he practically jumped back. But the judge wouldn’t have that, stepping in and sliding his fingers around the sergeant’s palm.
“How nice to meet such a polite young man. What a pleasant change,” he commented, glancing across at me and beaming in a smug, gratified way.
Despite his democratic principles, he was obviously enjoying this. If there’s one word that sums up the adepts of Sycamore Hill, then that word is ‘patrician.’
I suppressed an angry comment.
“Anymore been happening down there, sergeant?” the judge inquired.
Ritchie’s face finally came up, the pale eyes gleaming.
“Not that I know of, sir. Like I said, six homes that have been …” And he struggled for the right word. “Changed. Apart from that, there’s nothing else to report. But it’s enough, ain’t it?”
Then he squinted at me curiously.
“Do you suppose that this thing and your angels are connected?”
It was far too much of a coincidence if they were not. I told him so.
“There were two of them in the commercial district? Should I send some of my people up there?”
That wasn’t a particularly tempting prospect. I remembered how urgent Willets had been, ordering me out of there. He didn’t seem to think I had a chance against those things, and I was far more skilled at fighting supernatural beings than an ordinary cop.
“Not a good idea,” I said.
“So what exactly do we do?”
I set my palms against the windowsill. “We wait.”
“For what, exactly?”
“For whatever happens next.”
And when he peered at me, I added, “ Something always happens next.”
* * *
Ritchie made use of the speakerphone as well during the next couple of hours, so that all three of us could hear the reports from his colleagues. And everything we listened to had the same tone to it, that of stalemate. The cops still couldn’t see inside the affected homes. It remained pitch black beyond the windowpanes, with not a hint of movement. And no sounds were emerging either. The houses might as well have been abandoned, although we knew perfectly well that they were not.
There
“Being an adept doesn’t stop you being human,” I told him. “Welcome to the club.”
The man stared at me wordlessly for a few seconds and then pulled a face and shrugged.
* * *
It took Ritchie another half hour to show up, so he’d obviously spent a while making sure that he could leave his people to cope for themselves. But finally we heard a car pull up, the doorbell chime, and then Fleur Levin let him in.
When he walked into the study, I got a mild shock. He had transformed somewhat from the hard-nosed, fiery young sergeant I had come to know. He was slightly hunched, his eyes downcast, his every movement under tight control. His manner overly respectful. And I immediately saw what this was. Damn it, if he’d owned a cap, he’d have it clasped between his fingers and been fiddling with the brim right now.
It was Levin he was nervous of. And perhaps I should have been expecting this. It was the typical relationship between most of the ordinary townsfolk -- who only practiced magic occasionally -- and people like the judge who had been born to it and used it all the time. The former was extremely wary and respectful of the latter.
That doesn’t apply to me, since I’ve never practiced magic, the same way my folks refused to when they were alive. I think it’s playing silly games with the natural rules, and refuse to be cowed by it. Okay, it is a pretty impressive form of power, startling at times. But power -- on its lonesome -- doesn’t get my vote.
Ritchie Vallencourt, on the other hand, wouldn’t even meet the judge’s eyes. He introduced himself quietly, then added, “It’s a great honor to meet you, sir.”
And when Levin reached out to grasp his hand, he practically jumped back. But the judge wouldn’t have that, stepping in and sliding his fingers around the sergeant’s palm.
“How nice to meet such a polite young man. What a pleasant change,” he commented, glancing across at me and beaming in a smug, gratified way.
Despite his democratic principles, he was obviously enjoying this. If there’s one word that sums up the adepts of Sycamore Hill, then that word is ‘patrician.’
I suppressed an angry comment.
“Anymore been happening down there, sergeant?” the judge inquired.
Ritchie’s face finally came up, the pale eyes gleaming.
“Not that I know of, sir. Like I said, six homes that have been …” And he struggled for the right word. “Changed. Apart from that, there’s nothing else to report. But it’s enough, ain’t it?”
Then he squinted at me curiously.
“Do you suppose that this thing and your angels are connected?”
It was far too much of a coincidence if they were not. I told him so.
“There were two of them in the commercial district? Should I send some of my people up there?”
That wasn’t a particularly tempting prospect. I remembered how urgent Willets had been, ordering me out of there. He didn’t seem to think I had a chance against those things, and I was far more skilled at fighting supernatural beings than an ordinary cop.
“Not a good idea,” I said.
“So what exactly do we do?”
I set my palms against the windowsill. “We wait.”
“For what, exactly?”
“For whatever happens next.”
And when he peered at me, I added, “ Something always happens next.”
* * *
Ritchie made use of the speakerphone as well during the next couple of hours, so that all three of us could hear the reports from his colleagues. And everything we listened to had the same tone to it, that of stalemate. The cops still couldn’t see inside the affected homes. It remained pitch black beyond the windowpanes, with not a hint of movement. And no sounds were emerging either. The houses might as well have been abandoned, although we knew perfectly well that they were not.
There
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