“I don’t know if I even believe him.”
“He’s never been wrong before,” Nicolette said. “Confusing, sure, but we’ve always made sense of it eventually.”
“Maybe those oatmeal cookies are interfering with his vision.”
They returned to his office. Someone stood in front of the windows, hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the freezing rain and the city lights below. Nicolette whipped a chain of paperclips out of her pocket, a miniature scourge with a diamond-tipped pin wired onto the end, but Gregor put a hand on her forearm before she could ripple any nasty magic across the room. The person at the window wore a black coat made of vinyl or plastic, bunched tight at the waist and flaring out around his legs. His bald head was albino-white and looked soft as an uncooked biscuit. Or a mushroom. He turned and nodded to Gregor. His eyes were the yellow of jaundiced skin. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Reave.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” Gregor said. “I think we’re meant to be friends.”
6
M arla almost knocked on the door to her own office, but thought better of it at the last moment, and just barged in. She wasn’t sure what to expect—Ted slumped behind her desk with a needle in his arm, or asleep on the beat-up old couch, or practicing forging her signature in the checkbook. Instead she found…much less than she was expecting. “What happened to my mountains of crap?”
Ted turned from a row of filing cabinets along one wall. “I filed them.”
Marla mulled that. “Those file cabinets were filled with old carpet samples and comic strips cut out of fifty-year-old newspapers.”
He nodded. “I put those away in some banker’s boxes Mr. Rondeau found for me. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to keep them or not, but—”
She waved her hand. “No, no, they were left by the woman who used to run this club, I just hadn’t gotten around to cleaning them.” Marla had to admit she’d found the clutter and detritus somewhat comfortable. While she wasn’t the sort of magician who directly thrived on chaos, clutter, and rubbish—that was more Ernesto’s specialty, or that girl who ran with Gregor—she did prefer unpredictable, messy environments from a purely aesthetic standpoint. But having a wrecked office was ultimately more annoying than comforting, and if she wanted the soothing comforts of junk and decay, she could always just go home to her apartment.
“I’ll toss them out in the Dumpster, then,” Ted said. “I hope you don’t mind, I cleared off the rolltop desk in the corner there, and hooked up a spare phone, so I’d have a place to work.”
Marla crossed the room and looked at the desk. “Huh. There was a desk under all that, uh…what used to be here?”
“Fabric remnants, mostly,” Ted said. “I put them—”
“In banker’s boxes, right.” She looked around. The office wasn’t exactly spotless—the shelves were still crowded with hunks of exotic rock, tinted glass bottles, hand-bound books, and the traditional mummified alligator, though hers wore a little straw hat emblazoned with the word “Orlando.” Most of it looked suitably occultish, though it was all left over from Juliana’s tenure as owner of the club. But the dust was cleared, the piles were organized, and the top of her desk was actually visible. “This is good, Ted. You might work out. Do you drive?”
“I—of course.”
“Good to hear it. Top drawer, there’s a set of keys. I need you to drive me across town. I’ve had enough of tromping through the goddamn snow today. And grab that shoebox.”
Ted retrieved the keys and picked up the shoebox containing Genevieve Kelley’s worldly possessions. “I talked to Mr. Rondeau,” Ted said. “He let me take a shower in his apartment upstairs, which was wonderful. But when I asked him about my wages, and benefits, and hours, and…he wasn’t very helpful. He said he was on call 24 hours a day, and that the last time you
“He’s never been wrong before,” Nicolette said. “Confusing, sure, but we’ve always made sense of it eventually.”
“Maybe those oatmeal cookies are interfering with his vision.”
They returned to his office. Someone stood in front of the windows, hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the freezing rain and the city lights below. Nicolette whipped a chain of paperclips out of her pocket, a miniature scourge with a diamond-tipped pin wired onto the end, but Gregor put a hand on her forearm before she could ripple any nasty magic across the room. The person at the window wore a black coat made of vinyl or plastic, bunched tight at the waist and flaring out around his legs. His bald head was albino-white and looked soft as an uncooked biscuit. Or a mushroom. He turned and nodded to Gregor. His eyes were the yellow of jaundiced skin. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Reave.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” Gregor said. “I think we’re meant to be friends.”
6
M arla almost knocked on the door to her own office, but thought better of it at the last moment, and just barged in. She wasn’t sure what to expect—Ted slumped behind her desk with a needle in his arm, or asleep on the beat-up old couch, or practicing forging her signature in the checkbook. Instead she found…much less than she was expecting. “What happened to my mountains of crap?”
Ted turned from a row of filing cabinets along one wall. “I filed them.”
Marla mulled that. “Those file cabinets were filled with old carpet samples and comic strips cut out of fifty-year-old newspapers.”
He nodded. “I put those away in some banker’s boxes Mr. Rondeau found for me. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to keep them or not, but—”
She waved her hand. “No, no, they were left by the woman who used to run this club, I just hadn’t gotten around to cleaning them.” Marla had to admit she’d found the clutter and detritus somewhat comfortable. While she wasn’t the sort of magician who directly thrived on chaos, clutter, and rubbish—that was more Ernesto’s specialty, or that girl who ran with Gregor—she did prefer unpredictable, messy environments from a purely aesthetic standpoint. But having a wrecked office was ultimately more annoying than comforting, and if she wanted the soothing comforts of junk and decay, she could always just go home to her apartment.
“I’ll toss them out in the Dumpster, then,” Ted said. “I hope you don’t mind, I cleared off the rolltop desk in the corner there, and hooked up a spare phone, so I’d have a place to work.”
Marla crossed the room and looked at the desk. “Huh. There was a desk under all that, uh…what used to be here?”
“Fabric remnants, mostly,” Ted said. “I put them—”
“In banker’s boxes, right.” She looked around. The office wasn’t exactly spotless—the shelves were still crowded with hunks of exotic rock, tinted glass bottles, hand-bound books, and the traditional mummified alligator, though hers wore a little straw hat emblazoned with the word “Orlando.” Most of it looked suitably occultish, though it was all left over from Juliana’s tenure as owner of the club. But the dust was cleared, the piles were organized, and the top of her desk was actually visible. “This is good, Ted. You might work out. Do you drive?”
“I—of course.”
“Good to hear it. Top drawer, there’s a set of keys. I need you to drive me across town. I’ve had enough of tromping through the goddamn snow today. And grab that shoebox.”
Ted retrieved the keys and picked up the shoebox containing Genevieve Kelley’s worldly possessions. “I talked to Mr. Rondeau,” Ted said. “He let me take a shower in his apartment upstairs, which was wonderful. But when I asked him about my wages, and benefits, and hours, and…he wasn’t very helpful. He said he was on call 24 hours a day, and that the last time you
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