Under Pressure

by Isobella Crowley

  Taylor snapped an immediate response. “This is no time to be flippant, Remington. Besides, I assume you refer to the 1984 film, in which case, that was the first ghost they encountered—the one they failed to take care of. Still…”

  She paused and seemed to analyze the option and tease out what he’d said, even though he hadn’t really meant it.

  “Frankly,” she said softly after a minute or so, “you may be on to something there. An esteemed library is the kind of place that’s unlikely to be bulldozed to build more condos—or so we can hope—and provided that we can keep her physical body somewhere inconspicuous, it might be an excellent example of hiding in plain sight, so to speak.”

  Remy laughed. “See? Flippancy is practically my superpower. This reminds me of—”

  His phone rang.

  “Wow,” he said and glanced at Taylor in much the same way he’d once looked at older kids who’d managed to acquire next-gen video game consoles a few days earlier than himself. “I’m impressed that we can actually get a proper signal down here.” He slipped the phone out to examine the screen.

  “Yes, yes,” she riposted, her demeanor somewhat haughtily distracted and eyes hooded. “I have a booster tower well-hidden in the back yard. It’s a great help to my phone service as well as my wi-fi router. Being a vampire is no excuse to live in a backward slum. We have amenities here.”

  As he raised the cell, Remy could not help noting the subtly elitist statement. Normally, she kept her vague sense of superiority under tight control. But with the strains of the present situation wearing her down and keeping them all on edge, the mask of civility had begun to slip.

  In fact, something about her recent brusqueness and slight desperation almost reminded him of the aftereffects of addiction. Between himself and Riley, not to mention old friends who’d never recovered, it was easy for him to recognize.

  But there was no time to discuss that now. His phone’s screen displayed the identity of the caller. Boobs / Office.

  He drew his finger across the green button. “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Mr Remington,” Bobby’s voice said cheerfully, “great news. We have an address for a possible witch…”

  “Huzzah,” he replied once she’d delivered her whole explanation. “Good work, Bobby. Tell Kendra I said hi, also. Let’s plan on an early start tomorrow.”

  The receptionist sounded even more pleased than he did. “Thank you, sir.”

  He ended the call and returned his phone to its lair within his pants.

  Taylor was now seated on the rim of her open sub-grave. “I heard that. It’s nice to finally have some glad tidings. I could track her down myself tonight, but it’s possible she keeps to mortal, diurnal hours, and I think it would be best if you and I spoke to her together. We will go in the morning. Don’t worry about me. I can survive the sun when I must.”

  Remy nodded. “Right. I’ll go lose consciousness but I’ll set my alarm for an hour earlier than usual.”

  “Good.” Taylor looked thoughtful. “In the meantime, I will probe into this matter of the library.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up and trudged toward the stairs.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Taylor’s House, Harrison, Westchester County, New York

  Presley had found since Remington had moved in that his life and duties had grown more complex.

  This wasn’t only because he constantly had to remind the young man not to trash the place, not to disturb or annoy Miss Steele, and so forth but also because of the necessity of, for example, increasing the grocery budget and remembering to buy accordingly.

  Remington often ate takeout of some kind, which simplified matters, but he also consumed extra milk and coffee, not to mention hand soap, toilet paper, and the like. After years of these things remaining perfectly static, it had required some adjustment.

  Now, he walked down the main first-floor hallway toward the garage, intending to examine Miss Steele’s cars. It would be prudent to see how suitable they were to have enhanced anti-theft devices installed. Perhaps a palm-scanner associated with the key rack.

  He knew that things had escalated considerably of late and had even personally participated in a battle mere weeks before. And yet, on some level, his first responsibility was still to the estate. Caring for the house’s vehicles was as important to him as ensuring that Moswen and her loathsome allies did not take over the city.

  As he approached the door leading to Miss Steele’s crypt, footsteps—too heavy to be hers—ascended the cellar stairs. The door opened.

  “Hiya, Jeeves,” Remy said in a dull, inattentive way. He was clearly tired and distracted.

  Presley noted that the young man’s tie was loose, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his hair mussed, and that his body smelled of relatively recent sweat.

  Also, the butler thought it curious that Miss Steele had invited Remington into her personal sanctum and that they’d been there for a fair amount of time. Although hardly any major concern of his, he had to wonder exactly what they’d been doing.

  “Good evening, sir. I can see that you’ve exerted yourself of late. I take it you’ll retire shortly? Oh, and my name is Presley.”

  The old lycanthrope recalled Taylor’s recent words about “lingering smell” but she’d been known to reverse her decisions on things before—she was still a woman, after all. Besides, her private activities were not something he’d allowed to interest him beyond what was necessary for his professional duties.

  Remy blinked. “Uh…”

  The young man suddenly looked a tad flustered. His hand shot up to button his shirt and straighten his tie and for a moment, it almost seemed he would say, “It’s not what it looks like,” or something similar.

  Instead, he blurted awkwardly, “I only—it’s way bigger down there than you’d think—in terms of both volume and depth. I had no idea.”

  The butler nodded slowly, his face devoid of any indication whatsoever that he might have attached more than one potential meaning to the words.

  “Yes, sir,” he acknowledged, his voice as dry as his face was impassive. “Of course. The hidden nether regions sometimes are. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He walked past the rumpled young human toward the garage to complete his duties before he called it a night.

  Hudson Heights, Manhattan, New York

  Remy glanced at the clock set into the dashboard of Conrad’s car. It was 8:52 in the morning—a little early to knock on someone’s door, he supposed, but this was New York and according to the old saying, it never slept anyway. He hadn’t slept nearly as much as he would have preferred, besides.

  “Ma’am,” Conrad inquired, “and sir. Will you need me to approach the door with you? I almost think it might be better if I stayed with the car. Still, if you have a safety concern…”

  Taylor spoke first. “No, Conrad, thank you. Watch your vehicle and watch us but don’t approach unless we—pardon, I—signal you to do so. A man and a woman asking to speak to a stranger will seem less suspicious or intimidating than two men and a woman. Three people are barely short of a mob. We don’t want her to think she’ll be arrested or press-ganged into a religious group who’ve heard about her activities and are trying to save her soul.”

  The werewolf responded with a slow nod. Remy had to admit that it was a good point. He could easily see how a genuine witch might be more suspicious or paranoid than the average person.

  The bodyguard brought the vehicle to a stop near their destination—a small, almost quaint house like a miniature version of the Hudson View Gardens complex in the Scarsdale Tudor style. Despite winter having not yet fully departed, the ivy climbing one of the walls was green.

  They weren’t far from Fort Washington Park and absentmindedly, Remy wondered if their sorceress was aware that she lived within walking distance of an entire colony of the Fair Folk.

  The vampire turned to the lycanthrope. “Assuming she lets us in, wait exactly thirty minutes before you come to
check on us.”

  Conrad agreed. Much to his displeasure, Remy recalled the fact that Taylor and the werewolf had once been lovers—briefly and decades before. He shook his head to banish the image from the depths of his skull.

  They stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. Taylor had applied a thick layer of sunscreen lotion before they’d left and she also wore black gloves, dark sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed black hat. In fact, she looked rather like a witch herself at that moment.

  As they strode up the walk toward the little cottage, something else occurred to Remy and it gave definition to the strange sense of awkwardness that had crawled up and down his neck since they’d crossed Spuyten Duyvil Creek and entered the island of Manhattan.

  “You know,” he remarked in a low voice, “it isn’t a common occurrence for the two of us to head out on a case together, is it? In fact, I can’t specifically recall us ever having done so. Not counting moments like you showing up to the tunnel battle a few weeks ago or helping set the ambush for Alex before Christmas. Those aren’t quite the same thing.”

  A wry twist appeared near the corner of her mouth. “Well, Remington, it doesn’t make very good business sense to have a dog and yet do the barking oneself, now does it?”

  He’d been about to retort with a canned reply—a cocky remark about how having him along meant she ought to feel safer and have an easier time of things—but the words were caught somewhere in his throat and died altogether. He made a brief, half-strangled swallowing sound.

  Her mouth returned to its usual impassive set, but not before a slight sound escaped her—little more than a puff or two of air from the nose and the barest trace of a snicker.

  “Ohhh, I get it,” he said. “Trying to brighten the morning by getting a rise out of me. Well, with me along as your protection and eternal source of really good ideas, I suppose I can handle that extra duty as well.”

  “Ah,” Taylor quipped. “Good.”

  By now, they were close enough to the house to stand in its shade. She hung back a step and after a moment’s hesitation, he moved forward and banged his fist on the door. He made sure it was loud enough to ensure anyone in the house heard unless they were deep into a pair of headphones but not with enough force to be alarming.

  There was no indication of any response at first but Taylor turned her head to the side. Her sensitive hearing must have picked something up. A moment later, footsteps approached, and the door opened a crack, secured by a short chain. A single eye peered out at them.

  “Yes? Hello?” a woman’s voice intoned. “Who are you and what on earth are you doing here this early?”

  Remy flashed his best and most charming public relations grin. “Hiiii. We’re from Moonlight Detective Agency and we wondered if you could help us.”

  Taylor stepped in. “You’re Ms Alice Pendlebury, are you not?”

  There was a vague sense that the person beyond the door scowled before she replied, speaking more slowly now. “Yes, and how do you know that?”

  Remy was about to explain but Taylor laid a hand gently on his forearm and took control of the conversation herself.

  “We’re a private investigation firm. You might even have heard of us. We’re looking for an expert in the occult, as we often deal with…esoteric and unusual cases and subjects. Paranormal investigations that other companies prefer not to deal with. Queries into what some might call ‘supernatural’ or ‘preternatural’ phenomena.”

  Remy allowed his grin to fade but kept his poker face on. Taylor had handled that well, he thought. Essentially, she had dropped a few code words, most notably preternatural, into what was otherwise a fairly reasonable statement. She’d even left sufficient room for plausible deniability.

  “I see,” said Alice. “I may be able to help you. But I’d need to know more of the details and even then, I can’t make any promises. There are many people out there who cannot be trusted. I will not be taken advantage of or made a fool of.”

  The vampire nodded respectfully. “We understand, Ms. Pendlebury. We can offer you a generous sum of money merely for a consultation, with the prospect of more in exchange for further work. Currently, we’re working on a fairly serious case, in which several innocent people may be in danger. Sadly, we cannot handle things entirely by ourselves, so it is imperative that someone be willing to aid us.”

  “Oh?” the witch countered. “And who’ll aid me if the press gets involved and my business—which is already not exactly raking in the cash—suffers again?”

  Remy, even being a mere mortal as he was, could sense the tension and heavily veiled hostility. Clearly, being taken advantage of and being made a fool was something Alice had personally experienced in the past. She would be loath to be of much help unless they could set her mind at ease.

  What surprised him, though, was that Taylor seemed to miss it. She wasn’t quite herself lately, and it was, after all, several hours past her usual bedtime. The vampire seemed to operate on a kind of driving cajolement, full of urging and insinuation but without much subtlety or consideration for the desires of the person to whom she spoke.

  It was how she became when she was exasperated and growing desperate. Remy opted to intervene.

  “Ms Pendlebury,” he began in a soft voice, the kind a doctor would use while in bedside-manner mode, “we are aware of your reputation. We also appreciate that a woman in your position has to take into consideration her own social standing, pocketbook, personal safety—hell, even her feelings. As we understand it, you’re in a line of work that, to put it mildly, doesn’t garner much respect from the general public. Our whole business model revolves around respecting the dignity and privacy of our clients. And, at this point, all we are asking for is strictly confidential advice. That’s all.”

  The eye narrowed as the woman beyond the door seemed to think it over. “At this point, you say. Hah! Well…advice, I can give. But if you plan to simply use that as a foot in the door so that later, you can ask me to place a death-curse on a business rival or personal enemy, nope. It shall not happen. I don’t do things like that, thank you very much.”

  “Yes,” Taylor responded, “understood. We are asking no such thing.”

  Remy wondered how true that was. The ultimate goal was to render Moswen Neith as good as dead. Then again, for someone like her, the witch might make an exception.

  Alice sniffled. “That’s a start. May I have your names, please?”

  He glanced at Taylor. She made brief eye contact with him and nodded. “Taylor Steele,” she stated.

  Remy looked at the door. “Remington Davis.”

  Slowly, Alice’s eye receded from the crack and into the darkness beyond, and he felt his lower gut clench. Shit. We lost her. Somehow, we lost her. Does she know who we are?

  Before he could consider their failure any further, locks clicked as they changed position, the door swung open, and the woman flicked a light on. “Good. Come in, please. But don’t try anything stupid. I have ways to protect myself, after all.”

  He flashed a calm, pleasant smile. His instinct told him that Alice would respond better to that than to a big, overbearing grin.

  The witch did not look quite as he’d imagined. Somehow, he’d pictured an elderly woman—or late-middle-aged, at least—but Alice Pendlebury appeared to be in her early to mid-thirties. She was about Taylor’s height, a good head shorter than himself, with wavy red hair and large spectacles. There was something pouty about the cast of her mouth, although her cheeks were rosy and her eyes twinkled.

  The vampire crossed the threshold first, and his mind considered the old myth about how the undead had to be invited into a place before they could attack it. He was fairly sure that one was false, but receiving a formal invitation certainly didn’t hurt.

  Taylor inclined her head toward the woman again as she stepped in. “Thank you, Ms Pendlebury. I can assure you that we are not here to waste your time.”

  Remy followed a couple of paces behind his partner
, and Alice closed and locked the door behind him. He looked around the cottage. There were enough books and mysterious boxes stacked everywhere that he could see it as the abode of a witch, although in most respects, it seemed the normal dwelling of a woman who didn’t mind clutter but was otherwise tidy and fastidious.

  She led them through the living room and toward what seemed to be a combination of kitchen and dining room. Near the doorway, she stopped and looked at them.

  “Would either of you like tea? Or coffee, if absolutely necessary?” She pushed her glasses up her nose and he recognized, for the first time, that she had a slight, vestigial British accent. Perhaps she’d come to the United States as a kid.

  Taylor answered first. “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  “I’ll have tea if you’re already making it,” he said. “Well, if you have coffee, that would be even better, but don’t make a pot simply on my account.”

  The witch shrugged. “Tea it is, then. There’s half a kettle of reasonably hot water on the stove and cups and a bowl of sugar beside it.”

  Remy made himself a cup of plain black tea with no sugar. It was basic but fairly good. That done, he squeezed in at the small round table where the two women had already seated themselves.

  “Ms Pendlebury,” Taylor began, “let us get directly to business. Our client has come into possession of a rare list of ingredients and set of instructions for what they believe to be an ancient and powerful magical spell. Other persons—unstable and potentially dangerous individuals—covet this same information.”

  “Oh,” the witch replied in a somewhat flat voice, “really. Do go on. Judging by your complexion, you look like the nocturnal kind, so I imagine you’re eager to be off to bed soon.”

  Remy could tell that Taylor was miffed by this, but she hid it well.

  “Too true,” the vampire conceded. “What we would like for you to do is have a look at this formula and offer us your professional opinion as to its veracity, authenticity, practical application, and so forth. Again, we can pay you only for advice and possibly for further discussion or services later.”