“I didn’t think you could hear.” Primrose whispered, her cheeks aflame.
“Of course I could hear. The walls are paper thin,” Imran retorted, his voice stiff and restrained.
Primrose, sick with embarrassment, didn’t know what to say. “You never said—”
“What could I say, Primrose?” Imran paused and then began in parody, “Oh, Primrose! I heard your fiancé brutishly fucking you last night! It sounded dreadful. Please keep it down next time?” Imran was being deliberately cruel, but weeks of pent-up anger erupted. Primrose paled. A guttural sob broke from her and guilt instantly creased Imran’s features.
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Imran apologized and walked toward her.
He stood there for a moment, motionless, clearly unsure of what else to say, unsure whether to touch her.
Primrose didn’t look at him but stared at motionless Ian on the floor.
“He isn’t dead?” Primrose asked. “You’re sure?”
Imran looked at her, relief flickering over his face now that the conversation had shifted.
He sighed heavily. “No, Primrose, he is not. However, we now have to decide what we are going to do, before he wakes.”
Imran sank down on the couch beside Primrose and wrapped a comforting arm around her. Primrose, still embarrassed and hurt by his outburst, inhaled his spicy scent and relaxed briefly.
“He will be riddled with magical ions, and if he suspects a magical attack, he will go straight to a doctor who will test him. We are in serious trouble, Primrose,” Imran whispered.
Primrose closed her eyes, and felt very weary. There was silence for a long moment. Primrose’s clock ticked impatiently from the mantelpiece. “Okay, here’s what we can do,” Primrose finally began, her voice steady. “I’m going to phone his mother.”
Imran raised an eyebrow in surprise, and Primrose continued. “I’ll tell her Ian and I are breaking up, and he has got drunk and passed out. Then we’ll see what happens and go from there.”
Imran was silent and Primrose felt awkward. He leaned over and stroked her reddened cheek gently. For a moment, Primrose thought he might use his power to take the pain away, but he didn’t, and she was glad. She wouldn’t have let him anyway.
“You would do best to make that telephone call, then,” Imran said, reluctantly retracting his hand.
Primrose nodded mutely and picked up the telephone.
Within half an hour, Ian’s younger brother, Jeremy Beckwith, arrived at Primrose’s door looking sheepish and embarrassed. “Hey, Prim. God, I’m sorry about Ian. He’s such a shit.”
Primrose smiled wanly. Jeremy was the complete opposite of Ian. Although still big and brawny, he had warm hazel eyes and bright auburn hair and was always a gentleman.
“Have you got all of his stuff packed?” Jeremy asked. “I’ll take him and his stuff to Mum’s and when his lease is up he’ll probably move back to the apartment. It will all be okay. I can’t believe he…” Jeremy was rambling, mainly because he saw Primrose’s reddened cheek and knew his brother, so like his father before him, was a domestically violent man.
“His things are in the hallway, and he’s on the living room floor. I’ll get Imran to help you lift him,” Primrose said, suddenly tearful.
If Jeremy was surprised by the sudden appearance of a tall, dark, and handsome man, he hid it well. Imran ushered him into the living room and they both carried Ian out to the car. Primrose had liberally scattered beer bottles and whisky tumblers around the room and splashed a little on Ian to make him smell authentic.
“Holy shit, he stinks like a brewery,” Jeremy gagged. “Now I remember why I stopped drinking!”
Imran smiled but said nothing, and assisted Jeremy in loading the car.
“Prim, I’m really sorry things ended this way with Ian. I really do think you’re great.”
“Thanks, Jer. I’m sorry it’s ended this way too. Please tell him when he wakes I’ve changed the locks and alarm code, so he can’t come back. I will not tolerate it.”
Jeremy blushed awkwardly, obviously unsure how to reply. “Sure. See ya later.”
“Bye,” Primrose replied, and Imran, who stood in the shadows behind her, remained silent.
Chapter Five
Primrose didn’t go to bed that night, but sat on the couch crying. Imran sat beside her, wrapping his arms around her in comfort. She cried for the loss of a future with Ian, even though she knew that future would have been a bleak one. She cried because at thirty-one she was single again. She cried because her hand looked naked without the glittering diamond. All the while, Imran sat, patiently bored, until her weeping lessened and her breathing deepened and sleep finally overcame her.
When Primrose awoke, it was to the morning sun streaming through the living room window. She panicked momentarily, wondering where she was, and then like a sharp barrage of bullets she remembered last night.
“Imran?” Primrose called, sitting up and rubbing her still-red cheek.
“I have made breakfast,” he replied and came in with a tray of muesli and tea.
“Oh,” she gasped, surprised. The only thing lacking was a freshly picked flower in a small vase. “Thanks.”
Imran’s emotions were unreadable behind those dark eyes.
“What is the time?” Primrose asked before commencing eating.
“It’s about eight thirty.” Imran glanced at the clock.
“Jesus, I’m going to be late!” Primrose shrieked and began scoffing the muesli into her mouth.
Imran watched her with a wry smile. “You will be attending work today?”
“I’ve got to! I can’t get a doctor’s notice when I’m not sick!” Primrose flew off the couch and rushed into the bathroom.
Within fifteen minutes, Primrose was dressed and ready to go. Imran watched her silently. She looked good. She was wearing a pale pink cashmere sweater with a pencil skirt, sheer stockings, and comfortable, but stylish heels. Her hair was tightly pulled back into a long, neat ponytail. Primrose knew she looked competent and confident, as if nothing were wrong in the world, an impression she knew was so at odds with the truth.
“I’ll see you for lunch?” Primrose asked, secretly delighted by his admiring gaze.
Imran noticed her lightly bruised cheek was covered in a thin veneer of makeup. His eyes hardened. “Yes, if you think it is a good idea.”
“Why not? People break up with their partners all the time, and I have to say I had good reason to end it with Ian. I grieved last night, and I’m so over it.” Primrose smiled weakly. “Besides that, I love having lunch with you.”
Imran shrugged, and glanced out the window.
“Right then…” Primrose murmured, looking slightly abashed at his unexpected nonchalance. “I’ll, err…” She looked up at him expectantly as if wishing a kiss, or other familiar farewell. “I’ll be off then,” she finished, as Imran’s eyes finally met hers. With a look she couldn’t define, Imran inclined his head slightly before she turned and left.
Primrose arrived at the office noticeably late. Normally she would have been in the office by nine, but due to traffic it was nearing ten. As she strode into her office, Dermott watched her through the glass of his own office. When Primrose disappeared behind her door, Dermott rang Ian’s direct line without hesitation.
“Beckwith.” Ian’s voice was hoarse as if he had a sore throat.
“She’s in,” Dermott whispered.
“Primrose?”
“No, the Fairy Queen!” Dermott replied. “You’re the one who wanted to know.”
Ian hung up. He needed to talk to Primrose. He had awoken at his mother’s house, with what appeared to be a very bad hangover. His mother and brother were treating him like scum, and he really wanted to apologize to Prim
rose. He never meant to hurt her, Ian reasoned, even though he knew he frequently did. Something changed, and it was all Imran’s fault. Primrose had never thrown him out before and Ian felt disturbed, upset, and angry. He couldn’t remember drinking last night and had no recollection of anything other than sitting down with Primrose to talk about Imran. Ian stared into space, deep in thought, and wondered how he could possibly make amends with her.
* * * *
In Mr. Quillian’s office, Narana the secretary was briefing her boss on Ian Beckwith.
“He’s engaged to Primrose Brasco, who works over in the Department of Magical Culture. They live in a small, three-by-one in Hilton and have done so for the past year. There is no date set for the wedding,” Narana finished, her voice trembling slightly.
“Do they live alone? Any magical beings in the family?” Quillian asked.
“As you are aware, sir, all government employees are screened for magical heritage and traces, and as far as I am aware, neither have any MBs in their families. However, they currently have a lodger living with them.”
Mr. Quillian’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have a name for their lodger?”
Narana mumbled to herself, deeply puzzled as to why Mr. Quillian would suddenly take such interest in the assistant manager.
“Um, yes, he’s referred to in first name only. It’s um…oh, there it is, Imran. The lodger’s name is Imran. I haven’t had time to research him as yet though.”
Quillian froze. “You’re quite sure?”
“I’m certain. My informant heard Mr. Beckwith refer to him several times.”
“Thank you, Narana,” Mr. Quillian snapped. “I have one further request of you. Mr. Beckwith must have an immediate Random Magical Ion Test.”
“An RMIT?” Narana breathed. “On the assistant manager? Mr. Quillian, I can’t possibly ask him to do that!” she cried, her pretty face reddening with distress.
“Tell him I request it,” Quillian said, ignoring her evident anguish and dismissing her.
Narana gulped audibly, nodded, and left Mr. Quillian’s office. She removed a key from her desk and unlocked the closet to her right. From the closet, she withdrew a strange contraption and hurried down the hallway.
* * * *
Ian sat staring at the wall for a moment, pondering his situation, when his telephone rang.
“Ian Beckwith.”
“Ian, it’s Kay. I need your approval to admit Gary Forthright into Cerebral Care. You know the case. He married an elf and now his magical traces are all over the shop. The investigations are an interesting read.” Kay paused, but Ian didn’t respond. “I’ve got the psychiatrists’ report here for you to view and the Magical Traces Expert report too. I’ll send them up now if you’ve got time?”
“Yep, sure thing, Kay,” Ian replied uncertainly.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Ian replied, looking up as he heard a gentle knocking at the door. “I have to go, Kay. Send the info down when you’re ready. I’ll look at it and approve it for you.”
He hung up the phone quickly, and smoothed back his hair. “Come in,” Ian called in his most professional voice despite his hoarseness.
The door opened and Ian’s eyes widened as gorgeous Narana, object of many an office fantasy, strode in. She looked cool and calm, almost glacial.
“Mr. Beckwith, I am here with an RMIT.”
Ian’s eyes widened. “Random Magical Ion Test? What the hell for?” he exploded. “I’m the assistant manager. You can’t just order me to do that!” He was outraged.
“Mr. Quillian ordered it himself. I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Narana replied, her cobalt-blue eyes steady, but now glittering with nervousness.
“Mr. Quillian?” Ian whispered. “Why?”
“I do not know the workings of the CEO’s mind, Mr. Beckwith. I only do as I am told. Please let me do the test.”
Ian sighed. It was an odd request, especially since not a single member of his family was a magical being.
“Fine. You’ll be amazingly disappointed. I’m about as magical as a—”
Narana pulled out the RMIT and switched it on. It looked and sounded like a small handy vacuum, with a large screen and several buttons. It had three USB ports on the side. Ian stood up and Narana stepped toward him, pointing the RMIT close to his face. Ian could feel the air being sucked past his skin with a sudden chill. Abruptly, a loud panicky beeping sounded. Narana looked as startled as Ian.
“What the hell?” Ian cried.
Narana looked down at the screen in amazement. Unidentifiable/unregistered magical ions detected. 1700 ppm.
“Let me look at that!” Ian grabbed the RMIT from Narana. “That’s impossible.”
“Um, Mr. Beckwith, I think you should see Mr. Quillian immediately.” Narana quickly took the RMIT away from him. The incessant bleeping of the device drew the attention of several other staff members, so she quickly switched it off.
“Err. Um.” Ian was lost for words. “Okay.” He leaned down and locked his computer and followed Narana out of the office.
On the way up to Mr. Quillian’s office, Ian wracked his brain trying to reason why he was riddled with magical traces. “This can’t be happening. I haven’t done anything wrong!”
Narana said nothing, but kept a swift pace toward Mr. Quillian’s office.
Mr. Quillian’s office was marked by two thick, ornate, old-looking doors, which didn’t suit the rest of the décor of the office.
Narana paused at her small sparse-looking desk and picked up the telephone. “Mr. Beckwith is here to see you. He had an unidentified magical ion result of 1700 ppm,” she said clearly into the mouthpiece.
Narana looked coolly at Ian, who was fidgeting with his tie, flushing red. “You can go in immediately.”
Ian stared at her, quite aghast for a moment. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to be sacked or detained for this. Surely they wouldn’t detain an executive employee, he thought furiously as he opened the old doors into Mr. Quillian’s office.
Mr. Quillian’s office was decorated in a style Ian couldn’t really define, with expensive paintings on the walls depicting English Regency scenes. One wall displayed an ornate tapestry, and an enormous window opened up onto a Spartan balcony.
“Mr. Beckwith. Do sit.” Mr. Quillian was standing next to a side credenza and pouring a small shot of whisky. “Do you drink?”
“Err, not this early in the morning,” Ian replied and immediately regretted it, thinking he offended his boss.
“Of course.” Mr. Quillian smiled. “I forget that.”
Ian frowned. He never spent much time with Mr. Quillian. The Manager of Cerebral Management liaised directly with the CEO, not the assistant manager, after all, but it seemed to Ian that Quillian might be an alcoholic.
Mr. Quillian walked up to Ian, who was sitting nervously on a straight-backed and uncomfortable chair. Quillian inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring and his brow furrowing. “Mr. Beckwith, have you any idea why you, a decidedly non-magical human, has significant magical traces?” Mr. Quillian’s voice was smooth and well modulated, not divulging a hint of emotion.
“No. I really have no idea,” Ian blustered, fiddling awkwardly with his hands.
“Have you been anywhere…strange lately, or seen anything out of the ordinary perhaps? Maybe something strange happened to you while you slept? Odd dreams perchance?” Quillian pressed.
“Umm, no, not really.” Heat flushed into Ian’s cheeks at the thought of revealing the embarrassing truth that he woke up at his mother’s house with no recollection of how he got there.
“You don’t sound too sure of that, Mr. Beckwith,” Quillian said, sniffing sharply again and retreating to his desk. Mr. Quillian’s eyes were wide and blinked with odd irregularity.
“Um…”
“Please, Mr. Beckwith, by telling me the truth you could save yourself a lot of…trouble,” Quillian coaxed gently.
Ian knew Quillian was right. If he didn’t cooperate fully, it was likely he would be sent to Cerebral Detention and forced to. This was a frightening thought, as some of the methods for extracting the truth from a person were quite uncomfortable.
“I don’t have much to tell, Mr. Quillian,” Ian mumbled, looking away from those strange yellowish eyes.
“Do tell, for your own sake, Mr. Beckwith.”
“Um, well, I woke up at my mother’s house this morning,” Ian began, glancing out the window. “I, err, don’t remember getting there, though my brother said he took me. I apparently had been drinking, but I don’t remember drinking at all. The last thing I remember was…” Ian’s words were coming out in an awkward jumbled rush, but Mr. Quillian looked delighted.
“Go on, boy!”
“The last thing I remember was sitting on the couch with my fiancée and, um…” Ian didn’t want to continue. He didn’t want his superior to know he’d been arguing with his fiancée. In fact, he didn’t want anyone to know.
“Go on, boy!” Mr. Quillian barked and then cleared his throat and sniffed again, his nostrils flaring widely.
“Um, we had an argument, and that’s all I can remember.”
Mr. Quillian looked mildly irritated by this vague recollection. “Then you woke up at your mother’s? Was there anyone strange there?”
“By strange do you mean a magical being?” Ian asked.
“Of course, boy!”
“No, my mum, she…she’s a bit frightened of magic.”
“Then at your home, were you and your fiancée alone?” Quillian asked.
“Yes, well, Imran had gone to bed.”
Quillian straightened in his seat. “Imran you say? Who is he?”
“A friend of my fiancée. He’s been intermittently staying with us. Odd bloke, though. I did…” Ian paused, wondering whether he should confess he used his governmental powers to research an individual. “I did a bit of a background check on him, and I found nothing. I mean nothing. He’s never been to university here, he’s never owned a house here, he’s never done anything here. It’s as if he just appeared.”
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