by Ilana Waters
“It is,” Nicander replied.
“What is?” Abigail looked to Titus, then to Nicander, and back again. “Did I miss something?”
After a long pause, Titus closed his eyes and sighed. “Fine.” His voice was heavy with resignation. “I’ll owe you a favor.”
Nicander clapped his hands together and squealed with delight. “Happy day of Fate! All right, little ones. Here’s your reward: you mentioned another shipment. Pray tell, how do you think your baddies will receive it, now that their warehouse was incinerated?”
Abigail frowned. “Good point.”
“Yes, but not exactly advice, is it?” Titus said.
Nicander sighed. “Must I do everything? Fine, it’s not advice. More like a hint. A clue.” He waited. “Think about it. You destroyed their headquarters, or their storefront, or whatever. They’ll have to meet somewhere to discuss the logistics of replacing it, won’t they?”
“They wouldn’t necessarily have to meet in person,” Abigail said. “They could just call each other on the phone.”
Nicander shook his head. “Many supernaturals don’t trust modern devices with secrets. There’s too great a chance they might be overheard by the more mundane people in their lives. No, if you’re going to deal in trouble, supernaturals have had a go-to spot for years in this fine English city.”
“Oh, really?” Titus raised his eyebrows. “Where? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Ah, you’ve been out of the game too long, my friend,” Nicander chided. “Besides, either you tend to work alone, or your colleagues wind up dead. Not so much need for secret meetings, then.”
“So Cunningham and whoever else will have to meet somewhere to discuss contingency plans.” Abigail placed both hands on the bar. “Where is this go-to spot? Is it hard to get to? Off-limits to mortals?”
Nicander stifled a laugh. “Actually, quite the contrary. He’s very accessible.”
“He?” Abigail echoed. “It’s a person’s house?”
“It’s a place that houses something, all right, but not a person.”
“Dammit, Nicander.” Titus balled his fists. “Stop talking in riddles!”
“Okay, okay,” Nicander chuckled. “It’s not a person, but he has a name. You know him as . . . Big Ben.”
Abigail’s brow furrowed. “The ginormous clock in the middle of the city?”
“Technically,” said Titus, “Big Ben refers to the bell that chimes the hour, not the clock itself.”
“But that’s a very public place,” said Abigail. “It’s always crawling with tourists. Isn’t it a bit conspicuous for a clandestine meeting?”
Nicander put out his hands. “Where better to hide than in plain sight? Also, less of a chance of your fellow evildoers turning on you, committing acts of violence, et cetera. No one wants to break the masquerade, and risk their own lives in the process.”
Abigail thought this over. “I guess that does make sense.”
“Any idea when they might meet up,” Titus asked, “if they haven’t already?”
Abigail put several fingers in the air and mouthed numbers as she mentally counted off days. “I know for a fact that Cunningham’s in Shropshire until tomorrow. So, she won’t be meeting anyone at Big Ben tonight.”
“It would be tomorrow, then.” Titus put his fist in his palm. “Just one day before the real shipment. Still, we can’t wait all hours for them to show. Or I can’t; at least not during the day. But what time would they be there?”
“Why, the so-called witching hour, of course,” Nicander replied.
Titus groaned. “Of course. Midnight.”
“So, it looks like you two have a bit of time to kill before then. Do have fun, children.” Nicander winked at them.
Titus rubbed his temples. “Ugh. I need to sit down and have a think. Lovely seeing you as always, Nicander,” he said humorlessly, and walked toward the back of the room.
“And you,” Nicander called. “Let me know when you replace that ass on your shoulders with an actual head.” Titus replied with a rude gesture, and Nicander poured something in a glass for Abigail. “On the house, love.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” She picked up the glass.
Nicander smiled broadly. “You made Titus uncomfortable. That in itself is so hilarious, it’s worth far more to me than the price of a drink.” He winked at her. Then, just as suddenly and mysteriously as he came, the strange man was gone.
Abigail blinked. Where did he go? She hadn’t even seen him move. Then again, she hadn’t seen him arrive either. “What a bizarre place this is,” she said aloud. “I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland. Thank you!” she called to the empty air, in case Nicander was still there, invisible. She spotted Titus several yards away, staring at the occupants of two armchairs in front of the fire. She went to join him.
“You,” he said sternly to the couple in the armchairs. “Be elsewhere.” The couple looked around, dazed, for several seconds. Then, they wordlessly picked up their drinks from the small round tables between the armchairs and left.
Abigail put her hands on her hips. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Titus sat down in the larger of the two armchairs. “Neither am I. I thought we established that.” Abigail gave an exasperated sigh, and plunked down in the smaller chair. The seats were so close, her head and Titus’s were almost touching.
“I still can’t believe you think I’m double-crossing you,” she said.
“I . . . I’m not sure now.” Titus looked almost troubled.
“Really?” She placed her drink on the table next to her with such force, a few drops of amber liquid spilled over the side. “You were ready to condemn me before. What changed?”
“Nothing.” Titus scanned the books by the shelves next to them.
“Nothing?”
“That’s just it.” He turned his attention back to Abigail. “Nothing. Usually, when ‘undercover agents’ are found out, there are physical changes. Even the most hardened among them have hearts that beat faster, palms that go sweaty. The more experienced can cover it up. But when I confronted you earlier, there was none of that. No physical changes. So, either you are a magnificent liar—”
“Or I’m telling the truth.”
“Exactly,” Titus sighed.
This guy really is a piece of work. “Sorry to disappoint you by being honest,” she said. “Now I know why you were looking at me funny before. But maybe it was worth it. At least I got a free drink.” She raised it to her lips.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Titus said quickly. “Not if Nicander poured that. You never know what the fae might spike things with.”
Abigail blinked. “The what?”
“The fae. Faeries.” Titus paused. “You know . . . the Good Folk? The Shining Ones? Whatever idiotic monikers mortals are assigning to them nowadays.”
“You mean Nicander is . . . he’s really . . .”
“Actually,” Titus tilted his head up, “I’ve always suspected he is half-fae: one parent mortal, one faerie, though I’ve never confirmed it. But some of his magic, the things he can do . . . add that to the fact that he’s aging very slowly, and you can draw your own conclusions. Come to think of it,” Titus stroked his chin, “he doesn’t look all that different from when I saw him thirty years ago.”
“But he doesn’t look much older than thirty.” Abigail eyed her drink, then put it down.
Titus smiled. “Exactly.”
Abigail fell back in her chair. “So, you’re saying there are faeries? Faeries exist now?” Her head swiveled left and right. I wonder if any other people here are faeries.
“Of course they do.” Titus gave a wry smile. “I guess you hadn’t gotten to those books at the PIA yet. How else do you think he sensed you were magical?”
“I thought he was some kind of a witch, like me.” Abigail pressed her fingers to the sides of her head. “It’s going to take me a while to wrap
my brain around all this.”
“Why?” Titus crossed his legs. “You were fine with vampires and witches.”
“It’s just a lot adding up all at once.” Abigail squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. “Plus, I thought faeries were smaller. And winged.”
Titus shrugged. “Some are.”
“Do you think they’re here?” Abigail glanced up. They could descend from the sky, for all I know.
“Look,” Titus sighed, “can we discuss tiny flying people another time? Right now, we need to focus on finding out what Cunningham et al. are up to.”
“Why can’t your faerie friend help us more?” Abigail motioned to the bar. “Surely, there must be some magical way to ferret out what Cunningham is doing.”
“Probably,” Titus agreed. “But you’ll find the fae are most often neutral in such situations. They don’t like to get involved in other supernaturals’ affairs any more than they have to.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Can’t say I blame them. Quickest route to an early grave. Which I might also be destined for, now that he managed to extract a promise from me.”
“You’re really worried about that?” Abigail made a face. “You’re lucky he didn’t take all our cash. Seems to me you got off easy. It’s not like he can make you keep your promise.”
Titus grunted. “Just goes to show how little you know about the fae. They are most certainly not a group you want to owe favors to. And they always collect. Still,” he sighed. “I suppose it couldn’t be helped. At least now, we know where Cunningham and sundry will meet to select a new shipment destination. We’re sure to learn more about what they’re up to then.” A couple danced within a few feet of Titus’s chair. He set his mouth in a line and waved them away. Without even seeing him, the couple started dancing in the other direction. He turned back to Abigail.
Abigail grimaced. “But what could be coming here in two days? Nicander doesn’t think it’s an artifact. Maybe we’re on the wrong track with this whole jade statue. Maybe it was never about that. Our green monkey could be a red herring.”
“Which means the lovely lady Cunningham led you into a trap.” Titus tapped a long, pale finger on his chair.
“Yes, but why?” Abigail scrunched up her face. “I barely know the woman.”
“I barely know you, and I already want to get rid of you.”
Abigail gave him a sour look. “Yes, but you haven’t.”
“Yet.”
“Very funny. But seriously,” Abigail put her hands out, “why would Cunningham be so gung ho about kicking me off the team? If that’s even what she’s doing?”
“Maybe she’s figured out you’re turning into a witch.”
“So, why doesn’t she just fire me? Or lock me up? Murder seems like overkill.”“Maybe overkill is what Cunningham’s all about. Or maybe this has something to do with the PIA’s motto. What is it again?” Titus asked. “ ‘Close, but not too close’? Perhaps she thinks you’re getting too close to something.”
“Maybe.” Abigail bit her fingernail. “But that won’t stop me from investigating. Besides, I don’t subscribe to the whole detached-observer thing. It’s a cop-out for the cowardly.”
Titus stared at her severely. “I myself tend to take a detached view where mortals are involved. And I know you value your life too much to call me a coward.”
“I didn’t say you. But you have to admit, you haven’t been overly detached toward me these past few days.” Abigail smiled.
Titus pursed his lips. “I’m making an exception based on your potential usefulness. Also, you might not be wholly mortal—didn’t we just go over that?” He leaned forward, resting his elbow against the arm of the chair. “And even if Cunningham is ignorant of your powers, I find it a small wonder that others from the PIA haven’t sussed them out by now.”
Abigail’s smile faded. “From what Arthur told me, some members are better at that than others. And since my powers are small in comparison to those of a full-on witch, I’m not surprised no one’s noticed.”
“Yet,” Titus repeated. “Wait—who’s Arthur again?” Abigail looked away from him. “What is it?” Titus asked.
“Well . . .” Abigail bit her nail again. I guess I have to tell him sometime. “Arthur’s the new manager of the London branch,” she explained, “and Richard was grandfathered in—literally. Apparently, he and his family go way back with the PIA. But it’s not Arthur I’m worried about. It’s Richard. I think he’s beginning to suspect something. He keeps looking at me funny.”
“Funny?” Titus’s head snapped up. “Funny how?”
“I don’t know.” Abigail squirmed in her seat. “He just keeps staring at me, acting awkward when we’re together.”
A look flashed across Titus’s face, and for a moment, he seemed uncomfortable. Almost jealous. But why would Titus be jealous of Richard? He’s sure to think a “mere mortal” is beneath him.
“My dear, I think you’re overlooking the more simplistic explanation,” Titus finally said.
“Which is what?”
“That he’s a man.”
“Nah.” Abigail waved away the comment. “I mean, he is, but he’s got a girlfriend.”
“Which men have proven time and again means nothing.” Titus glanced at several male patrons.
“Thank you, Mr. Romantic,” replied Abigail. “But I don’t think I’m his type. In fact, I’m the opposite of his type.”
“Despite what men might say, Ms. Silver,” Titus examined his nails, “we do not have a ‘type.’ For the most part, our type could best be described as ‘two X chromosomes.’ ”
Abigail rolled her eyes. “Really, Titus, you must stop trying to win me over with all this flowery talk. I’m two steps away from melting in your arms.”
Her thoughts drifted back to when she really had been in his arms. First, when they’d fled the pub. Then, in the warehouse, and again in the street, when he whisked her out of the bus’s path. Which he could be blamed for putting me into in the first place, since he was the one distracting me. Still . . .
“You know, I, ah, never thanked you back there,” she said. “For saving my life. With the bus and all, I mean.”
Titus grimaced. “You’re welcome. We’ve gone back and forth rescuing each other so often, we should probably stop keeping a tally.” His gaze wandered to the fire in the grate. His fingers moved up and down, as if playing musical notes. The flames rose and fell accordingly. No one saw but him and Abigail. She watched as the shadows danced across his pale face and shining eyes. He’s like my own little secret, she thought.
“Pretty neat.” She nodded. “The way you can control fire.”
“ ‘I am the fire,’ ” Titus murmured, his gaze never leaving the flames. Then he looked up and smiled. “ ‘And we work in kind / What I desire . . . Is already mine.’ ” He winked at Abigail and lowered his hand. It accidentally landed on hers, and their eyes met. Abigail sat up straight.
“It’s funny you’re a master of fire,” she coughed. “The very thing vampires abhor.”
“Yes.” Titus cleared his throat and moved his hand back to the arm of his own chair. “I’m a walking contradiction. Besides, fire spells, like most magic, is less complicated than people imagine.” He shrugged. “The trick is to visualize it. To see the desired result as something that’s already happened.”
She watched his pale, slender fingers drum over and over on the dark surface of the chair. Close, but not too close. The motto of the PIA echoed in her memory. Maybe there is something to that, Abigail thought. She was getting awfully close to Titus, and in a way she hadn’t intended. That might not be such a good idea.
“Speaking of things that can kill you . . .” Abigail glanced at a clock on the wall. It had been hours since they’d woken. “Shouldn’t you be getting home? The sun will be up soon.”
“Indeed.” Titus frowned at the clock. “But we must find out where Cunningham will receive he
r shipment—and what it is—before I can even think of approaching the Council.”
“Why don’t we meet tomorrow night outside the clock tower?” Abigail suggested. “Say, a quarter to midnight?”
“Agreed.” Titus rose from the chair. “But you’d better be on time, because I’m not going to wait for you.”
Abigail sighed and got up from her own chair. “And here I thought you had all eternity.”
Chapter 10
Vampires, witches, faeries . . . truth really is stranger than fiction, Abigail thought. Still, she had to commend herself for the way she was taking it all in stride. After her eye-opening night at Nicander’s, she went back to her flat and spent the entire day in bed. The sun was just setting when she woke up.
I’ve only spent three days with a vampire, and I’m already beginning to take on his sleeping habits. She yawned and tried to tame her frizzy hair into manageable curls. I wonder where Titus sleeps. Do vampires really have coffins? She frowned at her reflection in the mirror and smacked the side of her head. Shake it off, girl, she told herself. You have better things to do than to think about what’s in that man’s bedroom.
It was just after sunset by the time Abigail got to the PIA. She had no idea how she would explain today’s absence from work, but she’d think of something. It felt good to be back in her old clothes, at least. Tonight, she wore an oversized suede vest down to her ankles. She was going to wear her barrette with the feathers, but thought better of it. She still shuddered to think of the plumage she’d picked off herself from the murderous Gregson. I’ve had enough of spare bird parts for a while.
She walked into the lobby of the PIA building, which she suspected had once been a hotel. Each level was visible if you stood in the center of the first floor, or the ground floor, as the English called it. It reminded Abigail of the shopping malls back home. Unlike those malls, however, no one had redecorated here since at least before WWII. She passed the cage elevator with its scissor gate, and was almost to the counter with the brass service bell when she heard Arthur’s voice call out a name.