by Ilana Waters
“Eleanor!”
Abigail froze. At the counter, in a short houndstooth jacket and matching pencil skirt, was Cunningham.
She must have gotten here only a minute before I did, Abigail thought. She couldn’t decide if that was lucky, or unlucky. Either way, it seemed like a good opportunity to spy. She might find out something useful. If caught, she could always claim she was just walking in, which was technically the truth.
Arthur and Richard were coming down the large staircase in the center of the room. Richard had a briefcase like Eleanor’s in one hand; Arthur was slipping into a cardigan. Neither had spotted her yet. Abigail ducked behind a tall, potted ficus and listened carefully.
“Glad to have you back,” Arthur said to Cunningham cheerily.
“Yes, how was the Midlands?” Richard asked politely.
“Same as always,” Cunningham said. She patted her helmet of blonde hair and smoothed the silk blouse under her jacket. “Sheep. Fields. More sheep. Occasional paranormal activity.” She covered her mouth in a yawn.
“Nothing too exciting, then, I guess,” Arthur chuckled. “Richard and I were just on our way out. Say, you’re not planning to work all night again, are you?”
Cunningham gave a resigned sigh. “I’m afraid so. Heavy is the head that bears the crown, or so they say.”
Abigail smirked. Wouldn’t be surprised if she really does think she’s a queen.
“I’ll tell Her Majesty you said so,” Arthur said. “Sure we can’t persuade you to join us for a pint?”
Richard gave Arthur an alarmed look, and Cunningham hid her horrified expression so quickly that Abigail struggled to cover her laughter.
“Thank you, but no.” Cunningham plastered on a smile. “Duty calls, as always.” Her briefcase was resting on the counter, and she gave it a loving tap.
“It’s just as well,” Richard said quickly. “There always seems to be something to distract us from our work. Like what happened at the East End docks the other night.”
Did I imagine it, or did Cunningham flinch? Carefully, Abigail moved the ficus—and herself—forward a few inches.
“Yes, Dennis told me when I returned from the train station.” Cunningham opened her briefcase and shuffled some papers. “Ghastly business.”
“Arthur and I were just discussing the possibility of it being supernatural.” Richard pushed his thick glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“Yes.” Arthur nodded. “They say some strange things were found in the area. Feathers, for instance.”
“Oh?” Cunningham swallowed hard. But it seemed less a gesture of fear to Abigail than of rage. As if she’s trying to hold all her anger in her throat. “What’s so odd about that?”
“Well, there were quite a number of them.” Richard squinted in Abigail’s direction.
Don’t move, Abby, Abigail thought. Don’t even breathe too hard.
It seemed to work, because Richard shook his head and turned back to the counter. “Yes, quite a number of feathers. Which would indicate a flock of birds. But see, these were raven feathers. I mentioned it to my girlfriend—she’s an avid bird-watcher—and ravens are mostly solitary. Sometimes two mates will form a pair, but don’t usually have a reason to gather together in such large numbers.”
“Well, maybe they changed their minds,” Cunningham said darkly.
Richard didn’t seem to notice. “But you know who does often use ravens as part of spells?” he asked. “Witches.”
Arthur nodded again. “Then there’s the fact that a fire started there in the first place. That warehouse has been abandoned for decades.”
Cunningham chuckled a little too forcefully. “Oh, Arthur. You know the neighborhoods down by the old docks attract all the wrong sorts. Squatters, drug addicts, derelicts . . . probably a tramp started a fire in one of those barrels like they do.”
Arthur rubbed his chin. “Bit late in the season for that, yeah? Not really cold enough for a fire.”
“Quite right,” agreed Richard. “An anorak or jumper perhaps. But not a fire.” He tapped his fingers on the top of his briefcase. “Wonder if it’s worth it to the PIA to pop down there and have a look.”
“I doubt that’s necessary.” Cunningham snapped the locks shut on her own briefcase in a loud, final way. “Whatever it was, I’m sure the good old Port of London Authority Police will sort it out. And sort out whoever it was that started it.” Her last sentence came out in a mutter. She looked up abruptly. “Tell me, how is that new recruit, Abigail, getting on?”
Abigail’s stomach hardened. Why is she suddenly asking about me? She can’t suspect I had something to do with the warehouse fire. Can she?
“I wonder if I might have a word with her,” Cunningham said, “if she hasn’t gone home already.” Her gaze wandered toward the Reynolds wing. “Do you know if she finished that alphabetizing assignment I gave her?”
Arthur and Richard exchanged confused glances. “Actually, we couldn’t say.” Arthur’s scratchy voice was almost apologetic.
“She hasn’t been here all day,” explained Richard.
Cunningham blinked. “Excuse me?”
That’s my cue, Abigail thought. She walked up to the counter, coughing into her hand. Eleanor glanced at her overlong vest and did a double take.
“Hello, all,” Abigail said weakly.
“Speak of the devil!” Arthur said. Richard gave Abigail a confused look, and took an almost imperceptible step back. “We were just talking about you.”
“Explains why my ears were burning.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead. “Along with everything else.”
“Where were you all day?” Richard asked. “I spoke to a few people who were worried.”
“Stomach bug,” Abigail sighed.
“My, but that is too bad,” Cunningham said icily.
“Erm, yes.” Arthur looked from Cunningham to Abigail. “Damn the luck.” He adjusted the lapels of his cardigan. “Well, next time, do give a ring and let us know you’re alive, yeah?”
“Yes.” Cunningham rapped her sharp nails on the counter. “That would have been the courteous thing to do, now that another member likely had to take on your workload.”
“I’m sure Abiga—er, Ms. Silver—was too ill to ring.” Richard scratched his head. Abigail could tell he was trying not to stare. But his eyes kept searching her, as if on the cusp of remembering something.
Or realizing something. Like the fact that I’m magic. Crap. This is getting harder and harder.
“Don’t worry.” Abigail faced Cunningham. “I’ll practice speaking into the phone between bouts of projectile vomiting.” Everyone stared at Abigail in shock. She held up her hands. “Kidding!” Richard touched his own throat, looking green.
“Yes, well,” Cunningham cleared her throat, “where would we be without these Americans and their candid sense of humor?” She smiled menacingly at Abigail. “The important thing is that you’re back, and fighting fit, as we all can see.” Her eyelids lowered. “One would hardly believe you’d been ill at all.” Arthur glanced from Cunningham to Abigail and back again.
If Cunningham’s aware of who’s responsible for the disaster at the docks, she hides it well. Abigail tossed her hair over her shoulder and folded her arms across her chest. But she knows, Abigail thought. I know she knows. So why isn’t she saying anything about it? Why does she act as if nothing’s changed?
Cunningham’s eyes snapped up sharply. “Perhaps alphabetizing isn’t the job for you, then. I believe you’re ready for something more challenging, yes? Spending all your time on other tasks is a misuse of your talents, I think.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re an expert on using people,” Abigail muttered. What have you got up your sleeve, you sly harpy?
Cunningham’s eyes bored into Abigail’s, but Abigail’s gaze was equally steady. “If you’re certain you’ve fully recovered from your recent . . . illness, I might have an int
riguing assignment for you. Arthur and I were just talking about investigating this situation at the docks.”
“We were?” Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. Richard looked at Cunningham like she’d lost her mind.
“Yes,” said Cunningham. “And now that I’ve given the matter some thought, I’ve concluded you’re right, Arthur: we should definitely look into it.” Briefly, she reiterated what Abigail already knew about the warehouse fire and flood. “And since an abundance of raven feathers suggests paranormal activity, we’d like you to confirm or deny if this is the case.”
“But how?” Abigail asked warily. “You said the warehouse burned down, then almost got washed away. Not much left to investigate.”
“Not much for the police.” Cunningham tapped the side of her nose. “At least, not after they clean it up. But I’m not referring to the warehouse itself. There’s another place PIA members know of—sort of a secret meeting spot for supernaturals if their plans in the city go awry.”
Big Ben, thought Abigail.
“Big Ben!” Cunningham held her arms out in a flourish.
“Really?” Abigail pretended to look surprised. So, the PIA knows about Big Ben, too. Wait till Titus hears this.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” said Arthur, “but where better to hide than in plain sight?” His words echoed Nicander’s the night before.
Richard nodded. “They always meet at midnight the night after a fiasco. Like what happened at the warehouse—if it turns out to be evidence of paranormal activity.”
But that didn’t happen because their potential ringleader was in Shropshire, Abigail thought.
“But that would’ve been last night.” Abigail leaned one elbow on the counter. “Why would they—whoever they are—meet up again tonight?”
Arthur snapped his fingers. “Blimey, she’s right.”
“Because Brex scoped it out last night, and there was nothing.” Cunningham gave a sharp nod. “I know that for a fact.”
Liar, thought Abigail.
Arthur turned to Cunningham with a quizzical expression. “Really? You didn’t mention Brex—”
“It must have slipped my mind.” Cunningham glanced at her heavy gold watch. “So, for whatever reason, there was no meeting last night. Which means there will very likely be one tonight.”
“There might have been no meeting because there was nothing supernatural about the warehouse fire.” Abigail stared hard at Cunningham. How far can I push her? she wondered. Enough for her to drop the mask?
Cunningham took a deep breath. “It’s possible,” she replied slowly. “But that is exactly the sort of thing the PIA looks into, isn’t it?” She stared back at Abigail.
If we’re playing a game of cat and mouse, it’s getting hard to tell which I am anymore, Abigail thought. But I should probably keep playing for now. She nodded at Cunningham. “Okay. That makes sense. What exactly am I looking for?”
“Why, the supernatural, of course, Abigail.” Cunningham brushed invisible dust off her briefcase. “You’ll know it when you see it. Just try to document anything you find.”
“Ah, Eleanor,” Arthur raised a finger in the air, “are you sure this is wise? Abigail is just starting out, and she’s recovering from being ill.”
“Indeed.” Richard adjusted his glasses. “My father has ulcers, and when it comes to stomach upset, he always says it’s best not to—”
“Richard, my boy.” Cunningham placed one hand on Richard’s shoulder. Abigail could see her clawlike nails digging into him. “Do remember that you’re new here. You’ll understand the way we do things better when—if—you become a full member.”
Richard swallowed hard. Arthur looked at Cunningham, his mouth set in a line. “Of course,” Richard mumbled. “Forgive me.”
“Eleanor,” Arthur stepped forward, “I really must concur with Richard that some rest is in order for Abigail. At least for now.”
Cunningham waved him away. “Really, Arthur. Just because Abigail’s a woman is no reason to treat her like a child.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Men underestimate us, don’t they, dear?” Cunningham reached forward and squeezed Abigail’s hand. Abigail half expected it to be clammy. But it was just a warm, ordinary hand. The banality of evil, Abigail thought. “But we ladies have to stick together, don’t we?” She released Abigail’s hand. “And you recovered so quickly after that last harrowing ordeal. Clearly, you’re a special sort whose place is in the field.”
“Well,” Abigail said, “all things considered, I guess I could—”
Cunningham held up her hand. “No need to thank me, though I’d have killed for a similar opportunity when I was in your position.”
You probably did, thought Abigail. I’m pretty sure you’ve killed since.
“I’ll hand off alphabetizing the Reynolds wing to Malcolm,” she continued. “Goodness, what I wouldn’t give to be in your shoes tonight!” Her eyes lit up with glee.
Shit. She’s definitely trying to kill me.
“Ah, thanks.” Abigail took her elbow off the counter. “But one concern: What if this ends up like that situation at the pub?”
Cunningham laughed. “Oh, come now. Big Ben is hardly a wayside stop in the middle of nowhere. Not even the most imprudent immortal would risk making a scene there.”
“Especially not if they’re British,” Richard mumbled.
“Besides, this isn’t likely to be a transaction that can go poorly. It’ll probably be more of a . . .” Cunningham twirled a finger in the air, “a conversation. Words never harmed anyone, did they?”
Abigail’s instinct was to list all the ways in which that last sentence wasn’t true. But she refrained. “Okay.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “But how am I supposed to spot supernaturals in a huge crowd of tourists? Especially if I don’t know what they look like.”
“Oh, there won’t be any crowds that late at night,” Arthur said. “Or early in the morning, I should say.”
Richard nodded. “And they don’t meet outside. The supernaturals, that is. They meet in the room with the four clock faces.”
Abigail frowned. “Isn’t that room forbidden to foreign visitors? You can’t even arrange a tour if you’re not a citizen of the UK. I know, because I once tried to—”
“Don’t worry about that, dear,” interrupted Cunningham. “I’ll make all the necessary arrangements.”
“This late in the day?” Arthur asked.
“You underestimate me, Arthur.” Cunningham waggled a finger at him. “You know the circles I move in have no trouble with such things.” She turned back to Abigail. “Just leave it to me. In fact, I think you’d probably be safe arriving there a few minutes after midnight.” Her tone did not indicate suggestion; it was a command. “You know how these things never start on time.”
“You don’t have to do this, Abigail.” Arthur placed a hand on her arm. “I mean, if you’re not feeling up to it.”
And waste my one opportunity to find out what Cunningham’s up to? Not on your life. She smiled. “Thanks, Arthur, but Ms. Cunningham is right. I’m pretty tough. Besides, I think I’m feeling better already.” She gave a broader smile. “Must have been one of those twenty-four-hour bugs.”
“Splendid!” Cunningham clapped her hands together. “Well, why don’t you muddle around here a bit?” She jutted her chin toward the stairs and balconies. “Catch up on things. I’ll make a few phone calls, and I should have your access to the clock tower in no time.”
“Sounds good,” Abigail said. The edges of her vest flapped against her calves as she walked away. “’Night, guys!” she called to Arthur and Richard.
“Good night,” Richard called back, knitting his brows at Abigail and scratching his head.
“Yes, good night,” Arthur said. “And do feel better.”
“Yes, do.” In one brisk movement, Cunningham swept her briefcase off the counter and held it at her side.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said to Arthur and Richard. “See you tomorrow.” She walked in the opposite direction as Abigail, up the stairs and toward her office.
As Arthur and Richard bid Cunningham goodbye, Arthur’s eyes followed her as she left. Then, he looked toward where Abigail had gone and rubbed his chin.
“Richard,” Arthur said slowly, “does what just happened strike you as a bit . . . odd?”
“Odd?” Richard echoed. “Odd how?”
“Well, I know Eleanor and Abigail are two different sorts of people. Not exactly cut from the same cloth, are they?” Arthur fingered the buttons of his cardigan. “But even taking into account their varying personalities, surely you noticed the iciness between them. I mean, the temperature all but dropped twenty degrees when Abigail walked into the room.”
“I suppose.” Richard adjusted his tie.
“And why did Eleanor change her mind so suddenly about investigating the warehouse?” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not like her to second-guess herself.” He dug his fist into his palm. “I say we scope out Big Ben at midnight tonight. Unbeknownst to the ladies, of course. Under the radar.”
Richard’s jaw dropped. “Under the—Arthur, you can’t be serious. What if Ms. Cunningham finds out? Or Abigail?”
“I’m not going to tell them. Are you?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“It’s settled, then.” Arthur slapped Richard’s shoulder. “We’ll both go home, have a meal and wash, and I’ll meet you one block north of here at a quarter to twelve. We’ll take my car. Think the catalytic converter should hold out for another few miles,” he muttered.
“How are we even going to get into the room with the clock faces?” Richard asked. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not as politically well-connected as Ms. Cunningham.”
“It’s easy,” Arthur said. “We just say we’re with Abigail, and that we arrived late.”
“You really think that’ll work?”
Arthur shrugged. “The guards will assume there’s no other way we’d know about her being there if we weren’t part of her group.”
Richard thought hard for a moment. “I guess it could go over. But Arthur, do you think Ms. Cunningham is lying about something? Or Ms. Silver is?”