The agents demon, p.1
The Agent's Demon, page 1
The Agent's Demon
LOCKE & STEEL BOOK ONE
L. E. Medlock
Stone Soul Publishing
Copyright © 2023 by L. E. Medlock
Published by Stone Soul Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-7393228-1-6
PO Box 1213, Canterbury, CT1 9RY
L. E. Medlock asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
First edition: 2023.
Cover by MiblArt.
This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production either products of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.K. copyright law.
Contents
Dedication
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
43. Chapter 43
44. Chapter 44
45. Chapter 45
46. Chapter 46
47. Chapter 47
48. Chapter 48
49. Chapter 49
50. Chapter 50
51. Chapter 51
52. Chapter 52
53. Chapter 53
54. Chapter 54
55. Chapter 55
56. Chapter 56
57. Chapter 57
58. Chapter 58
59. Chapter 59
Read more in the series
Acknowledgments
About the author
For Mum
Chapter one
The professor’s demon lurks in the shadows at the back of the room. His shaggy hair and three-day-old beard look scruffy against Professor Monaghan’s starched cravat and perfectly aligned cuff links. Tigerish amber eyes alight on me and I drop my gaze. Demons don’t like it if you look at them too long.
“How may I help, professor?” I ask the golden freckles scattered over my knuckles. Monaghan must have summoned me for a reason, but calling me here alone, less than an hour before the ritual—it’s not a good sign.
Not quite alone: at the sound of my voice, the other man in the room glances at me. I hunch my shoulders, the collar of my white shirt squeezing my throat. The man looks away, but not before a quick check over my shoulder, searching for a demon I don’t have.
“Miss Locke is not a field agent,” the professor says, catching the look too. “She’s Agent Turner’s apprentice.” He’d risen when I entered, and now he takes a seat. His burgundy suit is pristine, his fair skin pale from too many days behind a desk. “Miss Locke, this is Mr. Pemberton.”
The Legal Secretary to the Home Office. I swallow. What’s Turner done now?
Pemberton’s disdain is clear in the downward slant of his mouth under his moustache. “Exactly how many women do you employ here, Monaghan?”
“Not enough, sir, if I’m honest. We only have two Hound agents for the whole of Britain. If you would allow me to recruit just one more—”
“You have plenty of agents, Monaghan. You don’t need any more.”
“Seven, in total,” the other man persists. “Seven agents to cover thirty million people, and only two of those are equipped to—”
The Secretary raises his hand. He studiously avoids looking anywhere near Monaghan’s demon, Tiberius. “The Home Office has already made its position on this clear. I did not come to debate it with you.”
Monaghan’s lips thin, but he says nothing. I keep quiet, feeling big and awkward and like I’m taking up too much space. I don’t know if my presence is helping or hindering this conversation. Hindering, probably, given the Secretary’s reaction.
Tiberius watches the Secretary. A few more minutes under that pitiless gaze and the Secretary will be crossing himself and backing out muttering a prayer.
“Miss Locke,” the professor says.
“Sir?”
“Tell me what you’re working on for Turner.”
So, she is in trouble. I pause—a pause that does not go unnoticed, by the slight lift of Monaghan’s brows—and clear my throat. “Agent Turner is investigating the murder of Martha Tabram, sir, who died on the seventh of this month.” That was the case the last I’d heard, at least. Has something changed?
“Our police have been all over that crime scene,” Pemberton interjects. “There’s no evidence that points towards—” He flicks a glance at Tiberius, who remains as inscrutable as ever, “unnatural involvement. I appreciate your efforts, Monaghan, but it’s been three weeks. You can call off your dog.”
“Sir, if my agent deems an investigation worth continuing, then I see no reason to halt it.”
The Secretary clasps the arms of his chair, his face flushing. “Frankly, Monaghan, your agent is making the CID uncomfortable. To have a woman in the station is insult enough, let alone the fact that she’s Jewish, but with one of those creatures—” He does cross himself, then. I dig my nails into my palms to repress a flash of unholy amusement. “It’s too much for any decent man to withstand. No,” Pemberton continues, warming to the topic, “I think you should consider retiring her. The demon, as well. They’re too old to do any more good.”
I inhale. Even Monaghan looks surprised.
“We could retire Turner,” he says, slowly, not looking at me. I struggle to keep my face straight. Retirement for a human agent means their apprentice would inherit the role. The demon, too. “But as for the Hound—sir, we cannot afford to lose any of our demons. Lavender has been with the agency for years; her experience is incredibly valuable. Besides, Miss Locke is not ready to take Turner’s place.” A quick glance at me as he says it, but I don’t protest. I’m not ready.
“We haven’t had any serious unnatural activity in over a decade,” Pemberton says. “You can do well enough with six agents. And that other Hound agent you have—what’s her name; the Indian? She’ll do, I suppose.”
“Agent Khurana,” I correct, without thinking.
“What do you need more than one Hound for, anyway?” he continues, as if I hadn’t spoken.
I bite the inside of my lip. No male agent can summon a Hound, and the demons themselves are always female. Their high-tuned senses and their ability to detect the unique energy that other demons emit make them invaluable. Having only two is challenging enough; going down to one would be impossible.
Not to mention that if Turner and her demon were retired, there’d be no need for an apprentice. I’d be back in the workhouse breaking my back and choking on cotton, and this time with no Monaghan to pluck me out. I subtly wipe my palms on my skirt.
The professor looks over his shoulder at Tiberius. Without a word exchanged, the demon gets up and pads to the door. He opens it and murmurs something to the assistant, Miller. The study is no more than fifteen feet in width and breadth, even with the overflowing bookcases lining the walls, and Tiberius has no difficulty moving around the perimeter.
“I’ve asked Turner to join us,” Monaghan says. “She can tell us what evidence she has so far. If there is none, I will assign her to another case. Even if we are experiencing a lull, we cannot afford to give away good agents.”
Pemberton doesn’t look appeased, and I can’t entirely blame him. Hound demons are of little use after the first few days of a murder. By then, any trace of the demon would have been overridden by the comings and goings of the local community. In the East End of London, that time might be shortened to a few hours. If Turner was still investigating after three weeks, she must have found something worth pursuing. Or she was just being stubborn.
Knowing Turner, I suspect the latter.
Tiberius returns to his spot in the corner, brushing against Pemberton as he goes. The man flinches and Monaghan throws the demon a warning look. Tiberius leans against the window overlooking the gas-lit street and looks placidly back.
I know better than to give him the same look, but I want to. The last thing we need is to antagonise the Secretary, and being taunted by the agency’s most powerful demon is not going to set him at ease.
“You’re retiring another agent soon, aren’t you?” Pemberton asks, his voic e shrewd.
Monaghan nods as if he’d expected this. “Agent Stewart. Horner is his apprentice; he’ll take on the demon. We will carry out the transfer this evening, in fact. Reaper demons are the best we have,” he adds, as the Secretary opens his mouth, “and Tiberius is constrained to my side in London. We need him.”
Monaghan had sent a request to the Home Office to recruit another Reaper. The word had come back an hour later; a polite but firm ‘no’.
A knock comes before Pemberton can argue the point. Turner sweeps in without waiting for an invitation. Her grey hair is scraped into a bun, like mine, and the lines around her eyes are visibly strained. Behind her comes Lavender, pale and severe in a high-collared black dress. Lavender’s gaze snags on the Secretary. She looks at me and her thin mouth quirks. My own softens, though I’m too tightly wound to return the smile.
Turner flounces into the centre of the study and shakes out her skirt so it folds gracefully over her wide hips. “Well?” she demands, raising her chin. “I’m quite busy, Monaghan, so this had better be good.”
I can’t help it; I cough into my fist to cover a snort. Lavender comes to stand beside me. As tall as the demon is, I’m taller than her by three inches. But then, I dwarf everyone. I was the only one in my family to inherit my father’s height. Advantageous in a son, shameful in a daughter.
“Agent Turner.” The title is almost a rebuke and I wince on Turner’s behalf. She doesn’t seem to hear it. “This is the Legal Secretary, Mr. Edward Leigh Pemberton.”
She turns on the man and her gaze sharpens into a glare as he remains sitting. Pemberton reddens and lurches to his feet. “Ma’am,” he says, reaching for a hat that isn’t there.
She greets him with a nod. “I assume you want an update on the case?”
That needles Pemberton. “I have an update on the case from Commissioner Warren. All possible leads are being pursued.”
“That’s a lot of words to say the good Commissioner doesn’t have any leads,” Turner replies.
I wince again. If Monaghan’s goal in summoning her was to further Pemberton’s cause, it’s working.
“We’d like to know what evidence you have to believe in demonic involvement.” Monaghan regards Turner with steady eyes, the green dulled by the oil lamp on his desk. “The Secretary has some concerns.”
“No doubt,” she replies, tartly. “I’d be concerned if there was a murderer ripping up my city.”
“Turner. What progress have you made?”
She puts her hands on her hips and sighs. “It’s a tricky one. Whatever stabbed poor Martha has gone to ground. Lavender’s not had much luck hunting him.”
“But you remain on the case?”
“I’m not going to give up as easily as that. That’s not what we do, is it?”
Pemberton stops listening. “This murder has already caused enough unrest. If we’re to find the killer—the human killer,” he says, with a sideways glance at Turner, “then the police need to be given the freedom to continue their investigations without being disturbed.”
“Perhaps some disturbance might get them to work harder,” Turner interjects.
“We do not need demons stalking through the streets causing havoc.”
“Yes,” Turner says, sarcastically, “Lavender is clearly a force of evil.”
Despite Lavender’s age—advanced, even for a demon—her slender frame and narrow waist is the height of fashion. With my height, my freckles and my unfashionable yellow hair, I am more likely to draw attention than she is.
“You have no definitive evidence that a demon committed this murder?” Monaghan asks, quietly redirecting the conversation.
Turner sucks her teeth. “No,” she admits. “Not yet.”
Pemberton snorts. “The East End is in a precarious state. This murder has tipped it towards unrest. If it slides any further, we’ll have a riot on our hands. I have to balance the needs of the city, Monaghan. Let the police do their job. And consider what I said about retirement.”
Turner’s eyes flash. She says nothing, though, perhaps sensing how close to the limit Pemberton is.
I find I’m kneading the folds of my wool skirt and clasp my fingers together instead. Lavender tilts her head towards me as if scenting my nerves. Perhaps she does; I don’t yet know the limits of a Hound’s nose, if there are any.
“Turner,” Monaghan says, “stay at the agency and await my orders. Hand over any relevant case notes to Miss Locke to file.”
“Professor—”
He lowers his head fractionally; enough to silence Turner.
“I’m glad we could see eye to eye on this, Monaghan,” Pemberton says. He offers his hand, and the professor stands to shake it.
“Of course, sir. I’m happy to assist as best I can.”
Pemberton picks up his hat and gloves, nods at Turner and me, and departs, leaving the door open behind him.
Monaghan eyes it for a moment, then looks at Turner. “If you haven’t discovered anything by now, you’re unlikely to.”
“Lavender will find the killer,” she replies. “We just need more time.”
“We must pick our battles, Turner.” The words carry the ring of repetition. “Better that you come off the case now, before the Secretary presses me for the alternative.”
The woman exhales, her expression rigid. “If we keep losing the battles, professor, we won’t stand a chance in the war.” She strides from the room, taking Lavender with her.
Monaghan takes a minute to smooth out a crease in his jacket sleeve, frowning. “Take whatever notes she has, if she has any,” he advises, finally. “And get her to drop the case. I do not wish to retire her. Or you,” he adds, with a tired smile.
I can’t return it. The workhouse doesn’t need girls who can read Latin or crack a Caesar’s code. Without the agency, I’m nothing.
“Yes, sir,” I reply. “I’ll do my best.”
He glances over his shoulder at the dark window. “I had better ensure that Pemberton has left, before we get started,” he says. “I will meet you downstairs shortly.”
I curtsy, the closest thing to a salute Monaghan will permit, and hurry after Turner.
Chapter two
The ground floor of the agency teems with activity: two of our three regional agents and their demons have come to London for the ritual. Promoting a Reaper agent is an important moment. And a dangerous one.
Everyone clusters around the grandiose doors that lead to the underground room where we perform the ritual. The wood shimmers with latent magical energy, remnants of hundreds of spells performed over hundreds of years; a violent death to anyone who tries to open it without the key.
I find Turner with Agent Stewart and Jacob, close to the doors. Stewart clucks his tongue soothingly while Jacob paces like a spooked horse.
“I can’t help it,” the apprentice says, his hands flashing in pale punctuation as he talks. “What if something goes wrong? What if it doesn’t work? What if it doesn’t stick?”
“Don’t worry,” Turner says, her voice taking on the matronly air she reserves for small children and young men. “Stupider men than you have gone through this ritual, and they’ve all succeeded, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Um, thank you?”
“That’s not helpful,” Stewart mutters. “You’ll be all right, Horner.”
Jacob rubs at his temples, dislodging his mop of dark blond hair, and doesn’t reply.
“Turner,” I interrupt. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course,” she replies, and I draw her out of earshot of the others. Lavender trails after us, close enough to Turner to stay within the boundaries of their bond.
“I spoke to the professor,” I begin.
“He sent you to persuade me not to do anything stupid, didn’t he?”
“He’s worried about what the Home Office will do,” I reply, in a quieter voice than the one she used. “They’re threatening to retire you.”
“It’s been almost a month since the last time they did that,” she says. “I was starting to think they’d given up.”
Lavender folds her hands at the small of her back, and casts Turner an arch glance. “Perhaps you could try not antagonising their workforce.”
“I have no patience for stupidity.”
I try again. “He asked me—”
“To get me to drop the case,” Turner interrupts. “I’m sure he did. And I’m also sure that we have better things to do right now than talk about work. This is Horner’s night.”
