Chronicles of Devon

by W. J. May

  Clouds of steam had scented the room from a recent shower. Julian was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, towel round his waist, shaving cream on his face. He was just leaning forward with a razor, when his best friend appeared from nowhere, shouting in a rage.

  “How could you do that?!”

  The psychic startled in surprise—slicing a clean cut across his cheek. Drips of blood slipped over the foam as he turned in astonishment, securing the towel with his other hand.

  “Devon?” he gasped, lifting a hand to his face. “What are you—”

  “You went to Carter about arresting the harbor master in Munich,” Devon accused, jabbing a finger into his friend’s chest. “You made the special request—admit it!”

  Julian’s eyes widened in bewilderment. “Yes, I made the request. Why are you possibly upset about that?”

  “It was my case, Julian! You went behind my back—”

  “I didn’t go behind your back,” the psychic interrupted, holding up a hand between them. “I didn’t think you’d care. We’ve had other agents tie up loose ends for us before. And after that talk we had in the park, you sounded really overwhelmed—”

  “That was MY business, Jules!” Devon cried. “I told you all that in confidence!”

  “And I didn’t break that confidence!” the psychic insisted, dripping a steady pool of blood onto the floor. “I just told Carter we were swamped and asked if someone else could—”

  “What else did you tell him?” Devon interrupted fiercely, taking a step closer. “Did you tell him about what happened in the warehouse?!”

  Julian stared back in silence, looking utterly stunned.

  “...what?”

  “The warehouse!” Devon cried. “Did you tell—”

  “What the hell are you talking about? It’s in the official report, Devon. Like, fifty people showed up to the warehouse and a suspect was killed. It’s not like Carter wasn’t going to know.”

  “So you told him,” Devon snapped, throwing up his hands. “Like he didn’t think I was incompetent enough already, you took what remained of the case away from me—”

  “What are you talking about?!” Julian cried. “I did nothing of the sort!”

  “You know what, FINE!” Devon stormed into the bedroom. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll just leave—”

  Julian trailed after him, holding the towel tightly. “How am I not taking this seriously?”

  “You’re not even wearing pants!”

  Unseen by the others, Angel froze as she was walking up the stairs—tilting her head as she looked curiously towards the bedroom.

  “You broke into my house!” Julian cried in exasperation. “It’s not like I met you in the bathroom, we started talking, then I decided to take off my pants!”

  “Well you haven’t gotten dressed yet either!” Devon snapped. “You’ve always been so casual with nudity, Julian! Acting like it isn’t a strain on the rest of us!”

  Angel pursed her lips with a frown.

  “What the hell are you talking about?!” the psychic exclaimed. “In what world have I ever been casual with nudity? If anything, you’re the one who insisted we trade clothes—on a public train platform—when we were chasing down those gun-runners in Bermuda!”

  “So the court liaison wouldn’t know who we were!” Devon cried. “It was a brilliant idea!”

  “We were wearing the same clothes! They were just on different people!”

  At this point, Angel started discreetly recording with her phone.

  “What are we even fighting about?” Julian asked incredulously, freezing in place when a pane of glass swung into the room. “Did you...did you come in through the window?”

  Devon opened his mouth to reply, but the words died on his tongue.

  What am I doing?

  “I didn’t...I was just...” His shoulders slumped with a deflated sigh as all the adrenaline that had propelled him forward vanished on a dime. “I was just surprised you made the request.”

  The two men stared at each other, then he turned back to the window.

  “I’ll let you finish shaving.”

  A flying pillow struck the back of his head.

  “No—you’ll go downstairs so we can finish this conversation,” Julian commanded, wiping the cream from his face. “At which point I’ll probably need some stitches.”

  Devon switched directions, then froze when he was the only one that moved.

  “...are you coming?”

  “I’m going to put some bloody pants on,” the psychic snapped. “Heaven forbid I offend you with my casual disregard for nudity.”

  DEVON WAITED LIKE A misbehaving child in the downstairs study, playing back the argument in his mind. It was clear to see he hadn’t made much sense, that he’d come off a bit crazy.

  Casual disregard for nudity? Really?

  Things went from bad to worse when Julian came downstairs in a parka.

  Devon took a single look, then snorted with laughter—bowing his head to his chest. “Okay, do you remember that time I broke into your bathroom like a lunatic?”

  The psychic perched stiffly on the desk. “I’m summoning it to mind.”

  “So I might have overreacted a little...”

  Julian raised his eyebrows slowly, a bandage stuck to his cheek.

  “A lot,” Devon clarified. “I might have overreacted a lot. I’m sorry, Jules. I’ve just spent the last three hours driving on loop through the city, and...”

  He trailed off as Angel flounced into the study, perching beside Julian on the desk. The psychic continued staring, waiting for him to finish, but the words stuck in his throat.

  “I keep forgetting you live here,” he muttered, avoiding the woman’s penetrating eyes.

  “Oh, I’ve been having a fine evening,” she answered casually. “Listening from the stairwell as you have a mental breakdown and ambush my husband coming out of the shower. It was touch and go there for a minute, but now that I’m sure you guys aren’t going to start kissing I figured I’d catch the second act.” Her eyes flitted over the parka. “I’m guessing he turned you down.”

  “Kissing? What in the world?” Devon gritted his teeth, but forced himself onward. “I’m sorry, Jules. I’ve been freaking out about work lately, and freaking out about the kids, and I just...just threw that all onto you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s totally fine—”

  “No, this is good for him,” Angel interrupted excitedly. “I’ve seen personalities like this before. You need to make him grovel a little—”

  Julian shoved her off the desk.

  “Seriously, it’s fine.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “I truly didn’t mean to overstep with the harbor master. We’ve pawned off that kind of stuff in the past, and I didn’t—”

  “It’s totally fine,” Devon interrupted, holding up his hand. “We have done stuff like that before and, to be honest, I have no earthly idea how I’d get to Munich right now.”

  Julian laughed quietly before giving him a lingering look. “It’s all right to take it easy every now and then. You were the one who told me that about my lessons. It’s all right to let your guard down and take a few moments for yourself.”

  Devon bowed his head with a sigh. “I have no right to take it easy—these were my decisions. And I have no right to complain. I love every part of my life, I just...” He trailed off in silence. “Sometimes I think it’s too much. Like if there was one less thing, I could do it justice. But as it stands, I’m just setting myself up to fail.”

  Julian pushed to his feet, standing in front of him.

  “You’re not,” he said quietly.

  “You don’t know that—”

  “You’re not going to fail.”

  The psychic regarded him, taking in every detail with a sweep of those prophetic eyes.

  “It’s like you’ve internalized this expectation that you have to be perfect every second. That you need to have everythin
g together, and the world might fall apart if you don’t.”

  Devon gave a humorless laugh. “Is that so far from the truth? I married Rae Kerrigan—”

  “Exactly,” Julian replied. “You’re holding the girl who’s holding the world. I won’t pretend there isn’t a weight to that. But it doesn’t require perfection, Devon.”

  He tilted his head, catching his friend’s gaze.

  “And even if it did...do you know how close you’ve already come?”

  Devon’s throat tightened, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. The psychic had a way of making everything sound so simple. In a way, he guessed it was.

  “I’ll just...keep trying.” He glanced up with a wry smile. At least that way, if it goes up in flames I’ll know who to blame.” The men laughed softly. “...and I’ll know that I gave it my all.”

  Angel peered up at them from the floor. “But you’ll also know your all isn’t good enough.”

  Devon looked down at her slowly, and Julian was quick to intervene.

  “Honey, why don’t you head upstairs? I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She nodded brightly, hopping down from the desk. “Can we shag?”

  Devon raised his eyebrows pointedly as Julian flushed.

  “No,” he replied, nodding at the same time.

  Traitor.

  Angel kissed his cheek and skipped upstairs, leaving a scorching silence in her wake. The men stood there for a few seconds until Julian made a valiant attempt to break it.

  “It’s just—”

  Devon slapped him across the face.

  The two of them shook hands a moment later, grinning in spite of themselves.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Bright and early,” Julian replied. “We need to be at the place by eight.”

  Devon nodded and headed towards the door, glancing over his shoulder at a pile of crude illustrations on the desk. “What’s that?”

  “Oh...” Julian flushed again. “Angel’s writing a children’s book.”

  Devon looked up sharply. “Is that a joke?”

  Julian shook his head.

  “What’s it called?”

  There was a pause.

  “Little Dog Was Murdered.”

  Devon left the house without another word.

  “It’s about a group of kids solving a mystery,” the psychic called after him with a hint of desperation. “I think it’s sweet!”

  Chapter 10

  New dawn. New phone. New possibilities.

  Devon rolled over as the soft flutter of Tibetan chimes eased him back to consciousness, gazing with a sleepy smile at the prototype Luke had left on his porch the night before. The old model had been tossed out with the Chinese and was stubbornly beeping at the bottom of the trash.

  The kids were still sleeping. That alone was a small miracle.

  He showered quickly and went to his closet, only to find the racks and drawers were almost completely bare. Ever since his wife had mastered the delightful art of conjuring, there had been a steep decline in everyday tasks like laundry and dishwashing. He’d stood in front of the coffee-maker for ten minutes the previous morning, trying to remember how it worked.

  “It’s fine,” he murmured aloud, rifling through what little remained. “I can wear this...and this...and wash the rest of it.”

  He slipped into some clothes, hoping they’d be considered appropriate for that morning’s particular task, then scooped everything else into a hamper and carried it downstairs.

  The early morning sun was filtering through the curtains—pale and cold and borderline despairing. A perfect English morning. The kind that made you walk a little more quickly while a crisp breeze stirred the leaves around your feet. It was one of his favorite things about the season, a sense of anticipation as summer forcefully surrendered to the heavier grip of fall.

  And Mason wants to give all this up for some casual beach-sex and vitamin D.

  He scoffed as he wandered down the hallway, the hamper still lodged under his arm.

  That’s if the lizards don’t get him—

  “Where...am I going?”

  The words rang out in the quiet as he stopped at the end of the hall.

  When he and Julian had first moved in together, the washing machine had been kept inside a linen closet on the lower story of the house. When Rae moved in just a short while later, the thing had gotten such little use, they’d stashed it somewhere different and promptly forgot where it was.

  Stop, this is ridiculous. Of COURSE you know where—

  “What are you doing?”

  He whirled around with a start, almost dropping the hamper, as a tiny voice drifted out of the closet. A few seconds later, his red-faced daughter stumbled out into the hall.

  “Let me guess,” he panted, still catching his breath, “you’re trying to reach equilibrium?”

  She brightened a little, dizzily touching a dizzy hand to the wall.

  “Benji and I watched this documentary on horseshoe bats—”

  He held up a hand. “It’s fine. I don’t...I don’t need to know.”

  Her bright eyes flickered to the hamper. “Are you doing laundry?”

  There was something unfamiliar about the way she said the word—as if she’d learned it from television and everyone else’s parents—that made Devon bristle in response.

  “Yes, I’m doing laundry. We do that in this house.” He tried not to roll his eyes. “Sometimes.

  WHERE is another question entirely...

  “That’s great, Dad.” She folded her arms across her chest, cocking her head with a knowing smirk. “So, why aren’t you in the basement?”

  His face cleared in a moment of sudden illumination.

  ...it’s in the basement.

  “I was patrolling the house,” he answered stiffly. “Making sure there weren’t any psychotic children lurking in the closets. Heaven forbid.”

  She nodded slowly. “And the clothes-box?”

  ...what?

  It took a second before he glanced down at the hamper.

  Okay, we need to start doing more common world chores.

  He lifted his chin with the hint of a sneer. “It’s for warmth.”

  The two stared at each other a moment, then went their separate ways.

  “You’re cracking up, Dad.”

  Yeah, that’s fair.

  As the girl skipped lightly up the stairs, Devon headed down to the basement—another seldom-used area of the house. When they’d first moved in, Rae had tried to flood the thing in a petulant attempt at creating a pool. After one of their worst fights on record they’d ended up making up just as passionately, then wrote off the entire level as an emotional danger-zone.

  These days, Rae used it to practice some of her more volatile tatùs.

  Not a great idea, now that I think of it...

  His eyes flickered up to the dusty rafters as he descended the stairs.

  It was an unusual way to start a mission—searching for bottles of detergent while a baby slept upstairs. Most days he’d be waking up in the cargo hold of a freighter, or slipping into an office building armed with nothing more than an embedded Bluetooth and a smile. But since the children had been born, both he and Rae had been making a concerted effort to stay closer to home.

  Which is nice, he reminded himself, squinting at the various dials on the machine. It’s good to multi-task every now and again. That way, you get the best of both—

  “How the bloody—” He glanced upstairs in case little ears were listening, “—does this work?”

  The question went unanswered, echoing off the bare walls as he set down the hamper and pulled out his phone. Having failed to find an instruction manual of some kind, he turned instead to the internet—typing in the same search college kids were making every day.

  “First, select a temperature setting and load the machine—”

  “Good morning!”

  The door swung open and a beaming redhead saile
d down the stairs. In one hand, she had a cup of steaming coffee. In the other hung a rather ominous-looking bag.

  She handed him the coffee, eyes flickering to the machine.

  “Googling laundry?” she asked lightly.

  He took an automatic sip, distancing himself from the hamper.

  “No,” he said defensively, deleting the search history from his phone. “I was texting Julian.”

  The psychic appeared a moment later, waving his phone.

  “I didn’t get it. Weird.” He jumped the last of the stairs, then perched atop the washing machine—popping a sucker into his mouth at the same time. “What are you doing down here?” His dark eyes flashed around the room. “I’d completely forgotten about this place.”

  Devon flushed, wishing not every person in his life had a key to his house.

  “Yeah, well...that’s really immature of you.”

  He slurped again at the coffee, glancing again at Molly’s bag. She was angling it precisely, in such a way that it demanded attention—just waiting for someone to break down and ask.

  She brought you caffeine.

  “What’s that?” he obliged.

  Her face lightened with false surprise, though she couldn’t help but smile.

  “Just a little Prada...” she answered in a sing-song voice.

  Julian snorted with laughter, giving the dials a playful spin. “You’re only babysitting, Molls. No need to make it formal.”

  She closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, as if such blasphemy caused physical pain, then extracted a pair of dark pants and a fitted leather jacket. “It’s not for me, genius. It’s for him.”

  Devon’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Me?” he asked in surprise, glancing down at his clothes. “I was just going to wear this.”

  She didn’t answer, not exactly. Her eyes just swept over him in a long, judgmental sweep.

  “I’m serious,” he insisted, glancing at Julian. “This isn’t so different from...” He trailed into silence, staring at the clothes for the first time. “Molly...that’s been tailored.”

  “Yeah,” she answered impatiently. “Good thing I know all your measurements. Now strip.”