The agents demon, p.2
The Agent's Demon, page 2
“But earlier, you said—”
“Ah,” she says, cutting me off a second time as the professor approaches with the key. “Here’s Monaghan. About bloody time, too. Shall we?”
“Turner—” My voice disappears into a babble of noise as all the agents, demons and apprentices fall in behind Monaghan. Turner doesn’t—or pretends not to—hear me. Sighing, I shelve the conversation for later.
The ritual room spreads under the entirety of the building, and the tunnel that leads down to it has a low, arched ceiling. I hold my breath as I descend.
As head of the agency, Monaghan leads the way with Tiberius. Jacob goes next, as the focus of the ritual, with Stewart and his demon Maximus. No one begrudges the Reaper second place—it’s difficult not to respect a demon who can lift a horse over his head with one hand. Next are the Phantom agents; Dominic Rayne and his demon Cassius as vanguard, then the regional agents, Moss for Scotland and Peters for the North, with their Phantom demons. Each of them will return to their hub in the morning, enabling the agency to reach every corner of Britain. Only Williamson, our agent for the West, isn’t here.
The Hounds come last; Khurana, her demon, Isis, and her apprentice, Eve, and then Turner, Lavender and I to bring up the rear.
Pebbles clatter over stone. “For god’s sake,” Turner mutters. “They could have put some lamps down here. Are we so hard done by we can’t afford new oil?”
“Peace,” Lavender says. In the gloom, I just make out the demon looping her arm under Turner’s, supporting her. “Look, we’re nearly there.”
“One of these days someone is going to fall and break their neck. Or maybe that’s the idea,” Turner says, her voice dripping with irony, “get rid of us old folk so they can bring in new stock.”
“I doubt that’s Monaghan’s intention,” I mutter, but all thought of Monaghan and the Secretary fades from my mind as the narrow passage opens up. I exhale and my breath frosts the air in front of my face. And not just from the cold: a strange, heavy aura hangs in the room.
The chamber is wide, its cracked stone walls shadowed beyond the reach of the torches that are fastened to thick columns in a circle wide enough to contain fifty people. My heels thud softly on the floor: packed earth instead of hard flagstones.
Tiberius finishes lighting the torches and Jacob goes to the centre of the room with Stewart and Maximus. The demon holds himself with wary stillness; the torchlight turns his tawny skin amber and his sable hair bronze.
I examine the floor to keep from noticing how wan Jacob looks. Most of the stone is bare except for the large round space within the columns. There, scarlet shapes stain the earth, loops and angles and symbols that look like writing, but a language I’ve never seen before. A crimson pentacle surrounds the glyphs, far more faded than the rest: the foundation of the ritual. At its centre sits a large, shallow bowl.
The agents spread out between the columns, encircling Maximus and the two agents; a barrier should something go wrong. I check for Eve and find her standing behind her agent. Khurana’s thick glossy braid hangs over her shoulder. Even in the torchlight her large grey eyes are startling against her brown skin and straight brows. Her white-haired demon is a ghost in the shadows, alabaster skin stark against her black bodice and skirts. Both of them watch Maximus.
Old records speak of the agency’s first attempts at the summons ritual: one ended with an escaped demon and his prospective agent in bloody pieces all over the floor. Another resulted in the deaths of half a dozen agency members. Fewer pieces; the demon ate most of them. That was nearly three hundred years ago, though. Now, the precautions are just that: precautions.
Somehow, the reminder isn’t very reassuring.
Low whispers catch my attention. Agent Peters stands near the door, but Clara is with him. The maid murmurs something to him from behind her hand. How did she get in here?
I look at Turner, who makes a cutting motion with her hand. “Leave her,” she says. “If she wants to worm her way in here, let her. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and she’ll get eaten.”
Lavender tuts but says nothing.
I suppose Clara has to know what to expect. Unlike male agents, who are recruited as apprentices, the agency takes on women as maids, first. A way to get around the Home Office’s regulations and to accustom us to the supernatural more gradually, which is apparently something female agents need.
Eventually, it’ll be Clara’s turn to take up the role of Hound agent. Whether she’ll be replacing me or Eve, I don’t know. Nor do I care to imagine.
Small stone plinths cluster around the northernmost column, each crowned with a handful of black ritual bags. The velvet on some has frayed, and others are merely a shard of bone where the bag and the components have rotted away over the years. Jacob crosses the bloodwriting to pick up his, and the tension in the room thickens.
I hug the nearest column, my breath in my throat. It will work.
He returns and stands by the bowl, within the northern spike of the pentacle, back straight and head high.
“Good lad,” says Turner. “Don’t let them smell your fear.”
I’m not sure if them is supposed to mean the demons, or the agents.
He gives a jerky nod, and Agent Stewart stands by the bowl not far from him. Maximus joins them, until they each stand within three of the five prongs of the pentacle.
“Do get on with it,” someone in the ring mutters. Rayne, I realise, sparing him a glance. The Phantom agent looks bored, his thin brows arched and his eyes lidded. Cassius leans against a column beside him, not even looking at the ritual. In the flickering torchlight, the demon’s red hair looks like blood. He catches my gaze with his ice blue eyes, and smirks. I look away quickly.
Stewart leans over the bowl and makes a sharp movement. The tinder in the urn sparks, and, within minutes, flames lick up the sides of the brass basin. The agents around me stay silent, waiting. The fire leaps higher and Agent Stewart creeps back a little. Jacob does not move.
Good. Maximus hasn’t moved, either, and he watches Jacob with a level expression. I hope Jacob’s three years as an apprentice has been enough to earn the demon’s trust.
Monaghan has his gaze on his pocket watch. We wait, and after a while he nods. Jacob holds the ritual bag over the fire. His mouth moves, but with the crackle of the fire I can’t make out the words of the spell.
The spell components tumble into the flames. Orange-red shimmers to white, then yellow, then back to orange-red. The faint scent of flowers permeates the air.
Beneath Jacob’s feet, the crimson symbols glow. Softly, and barely visible with the torches all lit. But I see it. My breath hangs in the air like a cloud of tiny snowdrops. I shiver and pull my wool jacket tighter around me.
Across the room, Jacob shudders. A jolt of fear goes through me; if he stops partway through the ritual, disrupts it… But he straightens, and relief ripples through the circle of agents. I look at Turner.
She gives a short, satisfied nod. “He did well. Best we get upstairs, now, let the magic dissipate.” She hustles me out of the circle towards the passage.
Other agents follow, walking slowly but steadily away from the markings. I hesitate and glance back. Khurana and Rayne flank Maximus with their demons. The Reaper does not look perturbed, and strides with us back to the agency. I look for Jacob, but then we’re in the tunnel and I have to concentrate on my feet.
It’s a tense walk that only seems to take a few seconds. Turner emerges first and the rest of us spill into the hall. I stand out of the way.
Eve joins me. Her springy black curls are pulled into a loose bun and she’s taken care with her dress, choosing the dove grey that brings out the warmth in her deep brown skin. “That was anticlimactic,” she murmurs. “Was it supposed to end like that?”
“It hasn’t ended yet.” Now comes the hard part; the test that will determine if the spell is in place. The test to confirm that Maximus is safe, that even under attack he would never hurt an agent.
Rayne and Khurana take Maximus into the dining hall, out of sight. Jacob follows. He’s biting his lip, the skin white under his teeth. Stewart goes in last, his expression downcast. Once this test is complete, he won’t be an agent any longer. A pang of sympathy goes through me. Monaghan and Tiberius go in last, closing the door behind them.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” Eve mutters.
The group in the lobby dissipates, each regional agent and their detachment heading upstairs, back to their quarters. The test is always private, witnessed only by those with the skill and experience to subdue the demon in case he breaks free.
“You were gone for a while,” Eve adds. “What did Monaghan want?”
I tell her about the Secretary, about the professor’s orders, and she huffs.
“The Home Office will never shut us down. They can’t afford to. If they were to get rid of every agent in the country, they’d be overrun by demons. And they know that very well. They just want to keep us on a short leash.” Given the lack of prominent demonic cases over the last few years, I’m not sure the Home Office see it the same way.
I change the subject, unwilling to think about the consequences Pemberton had threatened. “Are you and Khurana staying in London?”
Eve smooths a few strands of her curly hair and shakes her head. “We’re going to Bristol in the morning. The local police force found a body in the river.”
“Murder?”
“Yes, but—worse.” Eve looks grim and I brace myself. “Infanticide.”
I close my eyes momentarily. No wonder they’re sending Khurana; Monaghan will want the best. “The water will have done a number on the body,” I say. Perhaps I should be offering comfort instead of pointing out the decaying state of the corpse, but it’s the first thing I think of.
Eve nods, used to our macabre conversations. “I’m going to look at a map, see if I can track the location back to a crime scene.” Her smile returns, dimmer than it normally is. “At least it’s a case; a real case. All we’ve had lately are assaults and rumours. I can’t wait to work on something important.”
“If you need any help…” I offer.
“I’ll be fine.”
The door to the dining room opens, cutting short any further conversation. Khurana and Isis emerge, unruffled, and walk past us. Rayne and Cassius follow and I hold my breath until Jacob appears. He looks as though he could be blown over by a stiff wind.
“It worked,” he says, with a shaky smile. He’s supporting Maximus, who looks even worse.
The professor looms behind him. “Well done, Agent Horner.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Normally I’d assign you an apprentice straight away,” he continues, “but I don’t think it’s right that you get one before Rayne does. You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.”
Jacob bobs his head. “Of course.”
“Make sure you get some rest.” Monaghan pats him on the shoulder and leaves with Tiberius.
I frown. “You’re more likely to need an apprentice than Rayne is. We have other Phantoms, but if something happens to you—”
“I just became an agent, Hazel, I don’t want to think about dying yet,” he says, not without humour. “Besides, I don’t mind. Domin—Rayne’s been here longer than I have. Come on,” he adds, to Maximus. The demon looks dazzled, and blood stains his shirtfront. “Let’s get you upstairs.” He wraps one arm around Maximus as though the Reaper is a doddering grandmother and escorts him from the room.
“I’ll go with them,” Eve tells me. Before I can follow, Turner marches out of the lobby, towards the entrance that leads to Temple Avenue and Blackfriars Bridge.
“See you later,” I tell Eve, then pivot and lengthen my stride to reach Turner. Lavender pauses as I reach them and lets me dart in front. “Are you going back to Whitechapel?” I ask.
“Are you going to tell me that I shouldn’t?” she counters.
“Monaghan wants you to stay here.”
“I heard him.” Turner’s voice holds the brisk tone that masks her frustration. “A woman has been stabbed to death and all that lot seem to care about is the comfort of their officers. If they cared more about getting the job done, we might have caught the killer by now.”
“I don’t disagree,” I reply, “but Monaghan’s right: it’s been three weeks. What can we do?”
“I intend to find out.”
“I can take down your findings,” I suggest. “Whatever you’ve already got. I’ll write a report and we can give it to the police. They can take it from here.”
Turner’s mouth pinches. Her ruddy cheeks are pale, and I wonder if she’s been eating. “There is work to do. I’m not wasting my time taking bloody notes.”
My face grows hot.
Lavender pats my arm. “The report can wait,” she says, in her gentle voice. “We promise we won’t disturb the authorities.”
“Speak for yourself,” Turner mutters.
The Hound shrugs daintily. “Besides, it’s just us. No Phantoms or Reapers to get in the way. Or report back,” she adds, her eyes twinkling.
“You shouldn’t be working on a case alone,” I object, but I can predict Turner’s response before it comes.
“The last thing we need is one of the boys getting in our way.” She snatches an umbrella from the stand by the door and tucks it under her arm. “Once they learn that us dogs can handle our own cases, we’ll all be better off. And we might actually solve a few, for a change,” she says, with a bitterness that has never waned, even in the seven years I’ve worked for her. “You need to look at the bigger picture, Locke,” she continues. “Monaghan has to balance the whims of the Home Office with the dangers that we face on a daily basis. It’s not an easy thing to do, but it’s something you’ll need to learn to be a good field agent.”
I nod, not entirely sure how to learn that but tucking away the words to dwell on later. Other agents sit their apprentices down and talk them through a lesson from beginning to end. Turner drops pearls of knowledge in my path and leaves me to pick them up. At least, I hope they’re pearls.
“Besides, I might have something.” She raises a hand as I open my mouth. “Before you tell me what I should and should not be reporting to my superiors, I said I might have something. It might be nothing, but we’ll only find out when we know something.”
I frown as I attempt to parse that. “What kind of something?”
“There’s a regiment of Coldstream Guards near Whitechapel. Get me background on the officers there—ties to the agency, paranormal run-ins, skeletons in the ancestral closet—the usual.”
There’d been something about the guards in the papers, a week ago, but I can’t recall what. It wasn’t a priority, then. “When do you need it by?” I ask, reluctantly. This is not how the conversation was supposed to go.
“Couple of days. Can you handle that?”
“Of course I can.”
She smirks, and I realise the jibe had been deliberate. “Glad to hear it.”
“What about the professor?” I ask, unable to shake the meeting from my mind. “If he finds out you’re still on the case—or if Pemberton finds out—”
“You’re worrying again,” Turner cuts in. “What did I tell you?”
“Right,” I reply, sighing. “The bigger picture.”
“Monaghan will be occupied with regional placements for the next few days,” Lavender says. “He won’t notice one apprentice doing a little research.”
Turner’s always flirted with authority but she’s never gone against a direct order before. And neither have I.
Turner thwacks me on the arm affectionately. “I’ll be back soon.” She sweeps out of the door without saying goodbye.
“When exactly are you returning?” I ask Lavender.
“You know Turner; ‘soon’ could be a few days or a few weeks.” She’s drifting towards the door, Turner’s pace drawing the invisible tether between them taut. “I’ll try to make it the former. I would prefer not to stay in Whitechapel for long.” Another fond smile and Lavender floats out of the door after Turner.
When they’re gone, I head for the stairs. We have regiment records in the agency library, everything from the last government census to genealogy records. I’ll start now. Get it over with.
“Miss Locke.”
I stiffen. “Professor Monaghan.”
He meets me as I ascend, immaculate in his three-piece suit and ivory cravat. Tiberius follows, less dignified in an open jacket and wool trousers.
“I’m pleased the ritual went well,” he says. He looks it; a line of strain I hadn’t realised was there is gone, and his stance is loose, relaxed. Stewart is nearing fifty, his reflexes slowing with age. It must have been a lot of pressure, the fear of losing him. “I expect Jacob is delighted,” he adds.
“He is,” I agree. “He was very nervous.”
“No doubt. And you; I assume Turner has something else for you to work on?”
It comes so quickly after Turner’s order that I wonder if he suspects. I take a deep breath, as if I’m being deliberate with my answer. If I tell him the truth, either Monaghan will punish her, or he’ll be forced to lie to Pemberton. If Monaghan doesn’t know, then at least he can claim ignorance if he’s asked.
That’s what I tell myself.
“She does,” I say. “I’m investigating a potential lead on a London case. Nothing to disclose yet.”
He nods. “Send me your report when it’s ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
He continues on his way and I climb past Tiberius, who doesn’t give me a second glance. The lie sits heavily in my chest. If there’s one thing Monaghan values, it’s honesty.
I hope Turner’s right.
Chapter three
The morning dawns foggy and cold, the first real autumnal day. I dart out of bed and shiver when my feet touch the icy floor. It’s too early for the fire to have been lit; the apprentice rooms are always left until last. I wash quickly and pull on my drawers under my nightgown, then throw that off and hastily don a chemise and my blouse and skirt. When I’m buttoning my jacket and can spare a thought beyond getting warm, I realise that Eve’s bed is empty; only a bottle of hair oil and a stack of dog-eared penny dreadfuls to tell me she was here. I make my bed and step around the two unoccupied bunks to the door.
