The agents demon, p.8
The Agent's Demon, page 8
Still, it would take someone with considerable strength of will to risk public ridicule. I close the wardrobe and finish getting dressed.
The small box that Maia left looks old and worn. I open it and flip through its contents: a couple of books; an old portrait of a couple—Turner’s parents, perhaps; a sprig of dried lavender that makes my heart squeeze; a small journal, like my own notebook.
I sit on the bed and open it to the last page. A confusing mess of symbols meets my eyes. A code?
I flick through the pages. Sure enough, each one is covered in the same code. Some of the symbols don’t look like letters at all.
I look at the books again, searching for a clue to the code she used. They all seem unrelated. I try a generic Caesar’s code, shifting the letters through the alphabet, then a few other cyphers, but none of my solutions work. I’ll have to give it more thought.
Glancing again at the window, I note the brightness of the day and the position of the sun. I’ve been stalling. At some point today, I’ll need to leave my room.
Resolutely, I stand and shake out my skirt. There’s no point putting it off any longer.
The demon sits sprawled across the floor, his back to the wall. His legs reach almost to the other side of the corridor. I clear my throat. He doesn’t react. With his chin sunk onto his chest, I can’t tell if he’s asleep.
I take a step closer, but he doesn’t even twitch. Is this an act to lure me closer, before he…before he what? What can he do?
Taking my courage in both hands, I touch his shoulder. Steel groans and lifts his head, blinking. “What is it?”
My eyebrows arch up before I can stop them. “You were asleep?”
He frowns at me. “Was that not evident?”
I stand upright, looking down at him. It’s reassuring to do so; it feels more normal than anything else has in the last day. “We should go down for dinner,” I tell him. “You do eat, don’t you?”
The demon’s eyes spark and he lurches to his feet, as if I’d cast a spell with my words. “Lead the way.”
It’s with trepidation that I approach the kitchen. Maia is at the hearth, speaking to Clara in a low, hard voice. Jacob sits astride the bench with Max.
At my approach, Maia’s conversation falls silent, and Clara turns in a whirl of skirts. The maid levels a burning gaze at me and flounces out of the room. I send a searching look Maia’s way, but the older woman shrugs.
“You know how Clara is. Sweet as honey one minute, vinegar the next.”
“I’ve done nothing to offend her.” The only thing that’s changed in the last day is the addition of another demon to the agency. What reason would she have to be angry at that?
My gaze falls on Steel. It’s Clara who places the ingredient bags in the ritual room to soak up as much magic as possible. She had opportunity. I drift closer to Maia.
“Where was Clara, before the ritual?”
The housekeeper tilts her head in thought. “Tidying the rooms upstairs. Why do you ask?” She narrows her eyes at me. “You think she had something to do with the spell?”
“I don’t know,” I say, after a moment. Why would she sabotage an event we all needed? “Perhaps I just made a mistake.”
Maia raises one brow at that. “That is possible, I suppose.”
Steel gives a soft snort behind me. I ignore it.
“Why do you not confront her?” Maia continues. “If she changed the components, she should be punished for it.”
“I have no proof. I won’t cause dissent in the agency for no good reason.”
“It is your choice.” The tone in her voice tells me what she thinks of my decision. “How did you sleep?”
I take a minute to realise that she’s addressing Steel. So does he, it seems, as he takes longer to answer. “Badly,” is his flat response. I hadn’t considered that my demon might be rude.
“I am not surprised,” she says, brisk and business-like. “Sleeping on the floor cannot be comfortable. I will see what I can do about getting you a room with a bed.”
He displays no sign of gratitude. I remind myself that he has little reason to.
“Thank you,” I reply. “That would be appreciated.”
“Go on and sit down. I will make you something to eat.”
Jacob greets me as I join him, his gaze flicking to Steel.
“All right?” he asks, frowning. “Everything…went well?”
“As well as can be expected,” I murmur back, then realise Steel has not sat down, and I twist in my seat to look for him.
He’s stopped a few feet behind me, staring across the table at Max. The Reaper stares back. A low vibration reverberates in my chest, a sound without sound. They’re facing off like two cats who’ve come across each other unexpectedly in a dark alley.
“Steel?” I ask, as Jacob says, “Max?”
The Reaper folds first, glancing down at his agent. His mouth shifts into a small smile, and he sits at the table opposite Jacob. He does not look at Steel. The Hound breathes out loud enough that I can hear him, and sits stiffly at the end of the bench, half-turned away from the Reaper. I give him an enquiring look, but he avoids my gaze.
“We haven’t met properly.” Jacob sounds as bemused as I feel. “I’m Jacob,” he says, “and this is Max. That’s Maia, of course.”
Steel gives no response, and the energy that vibrates off both demons makes the hair on my arms stand on end.
“I’m sure we can all be friends,” Jacob continues, with an awkward half-laugh. “Or at least…civil?”
“I will have no fighting in my kitchen.” Maia swoops between both demons and lands a plate in front of them. “Eat. Stop behaving like children.”
Max takes up his utensils, ignoring Steel, and Steel eventually does the same, eating with focused determination. By the time Maia sets a plate in front of me, his is half empty.
When we’ve finished, I clear the table and get halfway through cleaning the dishes before Maia catches me at it and ushers me away. Max and Steel start bristling at each other again, so I turn to Jacob.
“Do you know where Rayne is?”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him all day.”
“He went to the station,” Maia calls. “He is talking with the Inspector about the Whitechapel case.”
I press my hands on the wood. He must have left while I was still asleep. I’ve been in the role for less than a day and I’m already behind.
“Are you on this case, too?” I ask Jacob.
“Me?” He gives me an odd look. “You know Tiberius covers London.”
“I know. I only…” I want a familiar face. I don’t want to walk into this alone.
I glance at Steel and correct that thought. I’m not alone anymore—I won’t be alone again for years. The thought is both disconcerting and oddly comforting.
Chapter twelve
I catch a few hours of sleep that night and wake before dawn. It’s chilly again, and I dress quickly, putting my things into a neat pile for Clara to wash. A vague sense of guilt nags at me as I do. Now I’m no longer an apprentice, I don’t have to do my own cleaning, but leaving it for someone else feels like I’m taking advantage. It takes me a few attempts to stop straightening the clothes and leave.
“Good morning,” I announce loudly to the heap of slumbering demon outside. Maia found him some clothes that fit, so now he has a decent jacket and some shoes.
He glares up at me, his serpentine eyes narrowed. “Morning?” he croaks. “I think you must be mistaken. It’s still night.”
I glance at the windows that line the corridor. Sure enough, dawn is a pale impression above the cluttered rooftops of the city. “The earlier we rise, the more day we have,” I reply. “And we have a lot to accomplish.”
I stride to the stairs and pause just inside the spell’s limit. I’m impatient, but I don’t want to hurt him.
Grumbling comes from behind me, then the rustle of clothes and finally slow, lumbering footsteps. “What, exactly, are we doing?”
“First, breakfast.” I turn my head to catch the brightening of his expression. Too easy. “Then, we must speak to Agent Rayne about the case.”
“Everyone keeps talking about this case,” he says, as we make our way downstairs.
“You haven’t seen the newspapers?”
“Why would I be interested in the papers?”
Sighing, I explain. “There’s been a series of murders in the Whitechapel district. The agency’s investigating.”
“Aren’t murders commonplace in the East End?” he asks, through a wide yawn.
He knows London, then, and its districts. “It’s not the murders themselves,” I reply. “It’s how they were committed. The perpetrator was—is—either a demon, or unhinged. No one sane could commit these kinds of atrocities.”
He raises a brow, looking interested. “Perhaps this won’t be a complete waste of my time, after all.”
Exasperated, I drop the subject. We’re the first to rise, so we have the kitchen to ourselves. I slice some bread and spread it with dripping, serving it to Steel with watercress and a cup of tea. Steel eats everything but wrinkles his nose at the tea.
“Too hot?”
He puts it aside. “Too bitter. Don’t you have any sugar?”
“Do you know how expensive sugar is?” I take his cup and I return it full of cool water, setting it down with a click. “Here. Water.” Then I’m annoyed at myself for being offended over tea, of all things.
Steel takes his water mutely, his cheeks sucked in as though he’s restraining a smirk.
Rosy light creeps in at the window. “Rayne will be up, soon,” I say, once we’ve finished. “Let’s go.” He follows me with a grumble, eyeing the rest of the loaf.
The entrance hall has been cleared of flowers, although their cloying scent lingers in the air. Roses and anemones. I frown at a table where a vase of them had stood. It would have been easy enough for Clara to change the spell components, but what would she have gained by doing so?
The answer comes quickly: if I’d failed, she would have been next in line to perform the ritual. She could have bypassed her apprenticeship completely.
It would have been a foolish decision, both for her, and for the agency. Monaghan wouldn’t have approved it. Unless he desperately needed a Hound...
No matter how I look at the situation, I can’t shake my suspicion. I could have made a mistake and picked up the wrong bag, but for it to be filled with the same flowers that lined the agency’s halls that evening... Suspicious, indeed.
Suspicion isn’t enough. I can’t risk Clara’s position, or my own, without solid proof.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. What’s done is done. I have Steel, now, and I’m on the Whitechapel case. Anything that’s not related to solving the murders is superfluous.
With new determination, I open my eyes. I feel a prickle of awareness and realise Steel is watching me, something calculating in his face. I look at him and the expression disappears behind a smirk.
Footsteps make me turn. Rayne descends the staircase with Cassius, both of them dressed in hats and coats. He glances at me as he reaches the hall.
“Miss Locke,” he says, pulling on his gloves. “It’s early. What can I do for you?”
“I finished the report you wanted,” I reply. “If you’re heading into Whitechapel, I can get my coat—”
“Not necessary. We won’t need a Hound yet.”
I pause. “Would you like the report now, then?”
“Have Clara leave it in my room.”
“And the Coldstream Guards?”
He frowns. “I thought we discussed that. The military suspects in the Tabram case were cleared. Pursuing that line of investigation is wasting time.”
Jacob appears on the staircase with Max. He and the Reaper also wear coats and hats, and my answer to Rayne dies on my tongue. Jacob gives me a sheepish look.
“Agent Rayne asked me to accompany him,” he says, apologetically.
“The police have a suspect,” Rayne explains. “Some butcher they’re calling Leather Apron. If Cassius can find him, the Reaper can deal with him and we’ll close this case once and for all.”
I press my tongue to the back of the teeth as I choose my words. “I thought it was a Hound’s duty to track a suspect.”
“Monaghan can’t expect you to go out there searching for this man,” Rayne says, as if he’s surprised I’d suggest such a thing. “It’s too dangerous for a woman to be on the streets right now.”
“Max doesn’t know how to mask his presence,” I reply. It’s one of the reasons Reapers aren’t sent in until the last possible moment; demons can feel them coming a mile away. Tiberius can cloak his aura, but only for a short time, and Max is too young to do even that much. “Would it not be safer—”
“I know what I’m doing, Locke,” Rayne interrupts. “Leave it with me.”
“It’s just this once,” Jacob adds, searching my face. “Max is getting cooped up here, anyway. We need to get out for a bit.”
“Of course,” I say, my lips a little too pursed. First, I couldn’t get the ritual right, and now I can’t even do my job. “I will leave the report in your room, sir.”
“Good girl.”
I flare my tongue between my teeth and bite down to stay silent. Rayne touches the brim of his hat and strides out with Cassius beside him.
“It’s just one day,” Jacob says. The words are tossed over his shoulder as he follows Rayne out of the door. “We’ll be back soon.” They vanish and I glare at the closed doors. Some agent I’m turning out to be.
“So, we’re left behind to sit here and do nothing?” Steel comments.
“We have a hierarchy.” Rayne outranks both of us. Neither Jacob nor I have much choice but to obey.
“How are we supposed to investigate a murder if we can’t investigate the actual murder? You might as well have left me in Paris.”
Despite all his complaints, he’s right. Sitting here won’t do the victims any favours. But before I can do anything, I need information.
“This way,” I call, climbing the staircase.
“Are we going back to bed?”
“No. We have research to do.”
There’s a pause, and Steel draws level with me. He glances down—the strangeness of that makes me blink, off balance—and says, scornfully, “Research?”
“Research,” I confirm. “You didn’t think this agency was all blood rituals and breakfasts?”
“I’d hoped it was.”
“Without the necessary knowledge, even our best agents are useless. That’s why we have apprentices.”
“So, why can’t your apprentice do this?”
I doubt Clara would lift a finger to read a book, even if I asked. “Summoning you wasn’t…planned for,” I say, evasively.
“That much was evident.”
“The previous Hound agent was murdered,” I explain. My voice skips on the last word, but the demon doesn’t comment. “Monaghan had to promote another quickly, and as her apprentice I was the logical choice.”
“Your agency can’t be doing a very good job if all these people are getting killed.”
I glare at him. He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
“That’s why we’re here,” I tell him. “We’re going to stop it.”
He hums, non-committal.
In the library, I head to the bookcase that holds Maia’s newspapers. The shelves are all full. I pull out the papers from the last month and drop them onto my desk. Steel folds into a winged chair against the wall and throws one leg over the arm.
“How long is this going to take?”
“As long as necessary.” I sit down and get to work.
Martha Tabram was killed on the seventh of August. Articles about her murder are scattered throughout the newspapers. I scan each one, looking for any mention of the military, or the Coldstream Guards. Turner must have been on to something. I’m not going to leave her investigation unfinished.
There’s not much in the first week after Tabram’s death. I move on to the next, scanning through each paper. Finally, I find an inquest report that describes the witnesses. I skim through it, running my finger under each line so I miss nothing.
Here. One of the witnesses identified two soldiers who were with the victim on the night she died. These soldiers must be the ones Turner found, the Coldstream regiment. The witness, Mary Ann Connolly, is described in the report as an “unfortunate” known as Pearly Poll, who lived in the Whitechapel district.
If I can find Mary Ann, she can tell me about the soldiers she saw that night. Of course, that would mean leaving the agency and risking the danger that Rayne ordered me to avoid. I look at Steel. His head is tilted back against the chair, his eyes lidded. With a demon beside me, I shouldn’t have any problems. His height alone should intimidate any would-be attackers.
The truth that lies under my excuses is that I don’t want to sit here, waiting. Turner is dead, these women are dead, and another day will widen the gap between us and their killer.
I stand. Steel lifts his head, his gaze lighting up with interest. I don’t blame him for being restless.
“Maia gave you a coat, did she not?” I ask.
His mouth turns up at one corner. “We’re leaving?”
“We’re going to find someone. But first let’s get something to hide those eyes.” I rifle through the shelves until I find a box of someone’s effects; a past agent, perhaps. When I turn, Steel is already behind me. “These are for you,” I tell him, and hand him a pair of coloured spectacles.
He takes them, arching his eyebrows. “Do you doubt my eyesight, Miss Locke?”
“They’re not prescription; they’re to hide your eyes.” He smirks and I realise he was teasing. “If you put them on, we can get underway.”
The frames are silver and the lenses tinted dark grey, dark enough that they obscure the elongated length of his pupils when he slots the arms over his ears.
“You will spoil me with all of these gifts,” he says, the sardonic note in his voice evident.
