Chapter 7: Witch
Julian resumed the work Quinn had interrupted. Though, he had hid his annoyance, it was inevitable that Ms. Blackwood would catch on. Her youth was obviously a factor yet her intelligence was such that she was proving elusive to his domination. Control, he had learned early in life, determined success.
Ms. Trelawny-Blackwood had trusted him.
Ms. Blackwood-Pemberton had feared him.
Ms. Blackwood, the product of two generations, distrusted him.
That could very well be his downfall. Quinn had seemed foolish, easily manipulated. Julian was careful to keep his facade smooth, the veneer polished. He was good at setting people at ease. He’d been doing it for years. Finishing up a while later, he still hadn’t heard from Ms. Blackwood, which perturbed him slightly. She should’ve reached the small town by taking the route he’d told her, without problem. The printer whirred in the corner beside the large window displaying a panorama of glimmering city lights. Julian walked over to the window, quietly observing the surges of headlights below and the distant twinkle of an early star. Time had flown.
He left his office, stopping at the secretary’s desk; Quinn sat in one of the chairs in the alcove, flipping through a magazine. “Are there any messages for me? Has Ms. Blackwood called?” Julian asked without preamble.
The fey hardly lifted her eyes from the computer screen, fingers flying faster over the keys than was humanly possible.“No messages, sir. Ms. Blackwood’s number appears once an hour ago. The call registered, but was unable to get through possibly due to the storm. Also, Mr. Bhatnagar returned your call.”
Julian nodded slightly, expecting that. Leaving the printed copies of the reports on her desk, “I’ll call them later, then.” He said cheerfully, turning away. “Come now, Mr. Quinn, let’s get you home.” Quinn followed him back to his office to retrieve his coat and keys. The boy stopped just inside the door, gazing at the framed pictures on the walls.
“Marilyn,” Julian said quietly, retrieving the customary firearm from the locked drawer of the desk. “The CEO’s grandmother.”
“She was beautiful.”
“Still is.”
The boy wandered to a watercolor of a naked woman. “She was a painter?” He squinted at the looped signature dashed across the lower half of the painted divan.
“As a hobby, she has more time for it now that she’s retired.” Julian checked the charge on his cell phone frowning to himself. Quinn moved onto the painting by the door, shuddering visibly when reading the caption. “Evalescents...those who grow strong.” The canvas was dark, the sole figure sat before a table of bones and skulls. Her face was an eyeless mask, her body unclad was cloaked in shadow, one hand upheld a card of strange imagery. There was a malignancy to the art that arrested the younger man.
“Witches...,” Quinn muttered darkly, showing his Catholicism.
Julian had gathered up his keys, booting down his computer. He went over to where the boy stood, glancing at the picture. “You’ll find that a lot in this line of work. Mr. Blackwood was fixated on the idea of witches. An idée fixe you could say, on their powers to influence the natural world. The first Mr. Blackwood,” Julian corrected, looking him in the eye, guessing the boy was erroneously thinking of Ms. Blackwood’s father. “Had that preoccupation since it is generally thought that his wife’s family had been cursed by a witch unto the dying of all generational descendants.”
Quinn exhaled sharply. “I didn’t know...I mean...was it real? Did anything happen to them?”
Julian shrugged, holding the door open. He knew all this. He had to remind himself it was different for someone who didn’t know the truth. “There are no living males in the bloodline. The last Mr. Blackwood, Maril-- ah, Mrs. Blackwood’s husband,” he corrected himself swiftly. “Died in his late teens.”
“That man...in the second to the last photo. The blond man,” Quinn started to say, jiggling the plastic bag of soda cans against his thigh.“That was Mr. Blackwood, a blood descendant?”
“Oh, no, no, no. You must’ve seen Mr. Pemberton. Edward Pemberton.” The emphasis was there, though the boy failed to understand it. Julian shook his head slightly, showing his even white teeth in a smile. “Mr. Pemberton was from good stock however, I heard was frail in childhood. He died when Ms. Blackwood was in infancy. I would appreciate it if you didn’t reference Mr. Pemberton here again. She’s very sensitive about his memory.”
They passed the photos; from the corner of his eye, Julian glimpsed the boy look at the last again, hesitating. He could sense another question forming.
“Who was the woman? I don’t remember the plaque identifying anyone.”
“Jocelyn Blackwood-Pemberton, Ms. Blackwood’s mother. As for the plaques they detailed the team of hunters for the decade. Many of them died not long after their photos were taken. Ms. Blackwood’s was the exception in the group because the hunts had been discontinued for the past twenty years since she was five years old.”
“So, she was alone.” Quinn said quietly.
Julian found his tone strange, stepping inside the elevator car. Quinn got in a few feet away, gaze downcast, for the most part unreadable. Julian had always prided himself on being able to read the minds of most Blackwood candidates. They were a similar lot in size and idiocy, preferring to hear about the sizable paycheck on the roster rather than the real danger the job entailed. He didn’t know whether or not Quinn was an idiot for not asking or simply forgot he could die the very next time he faced up against one of Blackwood’s monsters.
They rode the elevator in continued silence until reaching the parking lot level beneath the ground floor. Track lighting from one end to another in the giant room, reflected a myriad of colored pools on the waxen sheens of employees, employers cars and the reserved parking spaces where the family fleet resided nearest the private elevator exit.
“Why was she alone?” Quinn asked as they walked to an older midnight blue Lexus. Julian shrugged, keeping an easy pace. “Oh, many reasons. With Mr. Pemberton’s shocking death, Mrs. Pemberton moved to Los Angeles with her two daughters. It fell to Mrs. Blackwood to make the decision whether or not to close up this office.”
“-or keep a skeleton crew working.” Quinn supplied without a hint of surprise.
“Hmm, yes.” Julian unlocked the car doors with the remote. Quinn slid into the passenger’s side, pulling the seat belt snugly over his fat torso. Julian slipped into the driver’s seat, twisting the key into the ignition. He let the conversation come to a standstill with that last note of agreement; certain the other would be content with his own thoughts on Blackwood’s twenty-year absence from the underworld.