He blinked at me. ‘Ears.’
I reached over and gave him the desired scratch. A deep purr throbbed from his throat. ‘More.’
I kept going.
‘More.’
‘I am thy servant,’ I told him, without a trace of irony.
His tail whipped suddenly from side to side. ‘Stop, bitch.’
I yanked my fingers away in the nick of time. I’d had enough psychological injury already today; I didn’t need physical scratches as well. Brutus hopped off the sofa and stalked away, clearly annoyed that I’d stroked him for a second longer than his desired time.
I leant back and pondered my situation. There had to be a way out; maybe the Order hadn’t considered every avenue yet. I stared at the ceiling thoughtfully then dug out my phone. It rang for several seconds and I was on the verge of giving up when someone finally answered. ‘What?’
‘You know,’ I said, snuggling deeper into the duvet, ‘you’re not going to win friends and influence people with that kind of attitude.’
‘Good evening. You have reached the esteemed laboratory of I-don’t-give-a-shit. How may we not help you?’
I grinned. Iqbal was a man after my own heart. ‘Hi, honey.’
‘I’m busy, Ivy. We can’t all loll around, some of us have work to do.’
‘I work.’
‘Sitting on your arse all day long and occasionally turning a steering wheel is not work.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘And reading all day is?’
‘You try it,’ he snarked.
Tomes and treatises on the history of the British Isles? No thanks. ‘How is that PhD coming along?’ I asked. Iqbal has been studying for it since I first met him. I keep waiting for someone to tell him that he’ll lose his funding if he doesn’t get a move on and actually write something, but he seems to keep managing to slide by. Although by the last count, his grandmother has died seven times. The university is generous with its compassionate leave.
‘I wrote two hundred words today,’ he said, with a hint of pride.
‘Great!’
‘I deleted three hundred and sixty-two.’
‘Well,’ I demurred, ‘editing is important. What’s the actual total?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Eighteen thousand? That’s brilliant.’
There was a pause. ‘No. Just eighteen.’
Ah. ‘It could be worse.’
‘Could it?’ His tone was morose. ‘“The effect of magic on the substantive growth and expansion of the British Empire by Iqbal L. Sharif”. That’s all I’ve got. And I’m including my initial in the word count. I’m also thinking that I should delete “substantive”.’
‘You realise you’re my hero, right?’
He snorted. ‘What do you want, Ivy? You can’t be calling up just to check on my lack of progress.’
I twiddled a loose blonde curl. ‘Why not? That’s what friends do. I’m being supportive.’
‘Get to the point.’
Fair enough. ‘I’ve been subjected to a rather complicated binding spell,’ I said, outlining the details for him.
‘Wow. The Order really hate you, huh?’
‘Actually, the spell on its own is nothing to do with me. As far as I can work out, it’s more binding than usual because they didn’t trust their own guy not to dump me when he got fed up.’
There was a pause. ‘Who’s their guy?’
‘Adeptus Exemptus Winter.’
Iqbal let out a low whistle. ‘Damn, girl.’
‘You know him?’
‘I know of him. Everyone knows of him. How come you don’t?’
‘Because I don’t pay attention to what the Order does. You know that, Iqbal.’
‘I know you said that. I just thought…’
‘What? That I say I don’t care about them but really I stalk them at every opportunity?’
‘Well, yeah.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m a pretty uncomplicated person. What you see is what you get.’ Secrets take time and energy. Most of the time, at least. There was one glaring exception to that rule but I’d put it behind me long ago. ‘Anyway, what I want to know is—’
‘—is whether there’s a way to break the binding before the first hundred days are up. I can look into it but it’s probably an ancient spell and we both know they’re the toughest ones to crack. The good news is I’ve got all the right books lying around here.’
I beamed. ‘Brill.’
‘Bear in mind,’ he cautioned, ‘that this sort of spell sounds like it’s been drawn right out of the Cyphers. In that scenario…’
‘I get it,’ I said. The Cypher Manuscripts are the Bible as far as the Order are concerned. The magic written on their pages is stronger than you’ll find anywhere else. It is essentially primeval; it is enchantment in its rawest form. Fortunately, however, its power is rarely harnessed. Even Second Level Order members have to petition to be allowed access to even one dusty yellowing Cypher page. And I’d heard there were thousands. There was no way that the Order had gone to those lengths for a binding spell, no matter how much they wanted to keep Winter in line. ‘If Cypher magic was used, then all bets are off.’
‘Agreed.’ Iqbal paused. ‘So what do I get in return for helping you?’
Arse. ‘Joy in your heart.’
‘Not enough, Ivy. I need more.’
I scrunched up my face. ‘What do you want?’
Iqbal didn’t hesitate. ‘Karaoke.’
‘You bastard.’
I could virtually hear him grin. ‘Minimum of two hours. At least three songs from you, one of which must be a duet with me.’
‘There must be something else. My life savings? My first-born? Anything?’
‘Those are my terms.’
Damn him. ‘No rap.’ My mouth didn’t work that fast.
‘Done.’
‘And no Sonny and Cher for the duet.’
‘Fine.’ He sounded smug. That had me worried but what choice did I have?
‘Okay. Find the information I need and I’ll do karaoke,’ I said reluctantly.
‘I’m already on it.’
I hesitated then said, ‘Before you go, is there anything in particular I should know about Winter?’
Iqbal was silent for a moment. Finally he spoke. ‘Watch your step. That man is on a mission to rise to the top of the Order and he’ll do almost anything to get there. He was brought up as an army brat in a non-magical family. His father is some military big shot and Raphael was expected to follow in Daddy’s footsteps until his magic showed itself. The family no doubt expects him to rise up the Order ranks as quickly as he would have risen in the army. He’s not a Department Head like most others of his rank but that’s because he knows the fastest way to the top is through Arcane Branch. He’s prepared to bide his time. At least, that’s what the word on the street is.’
I didn’t like the sound of that at all. Ambition always makes me feel rather queasy. ‘Thanks, darling,’ I said. I hung up.
I’d done everything I could for now. Yawning, I rested my head on the arm of the sofa. One of these days I was going to train Brutus to make me mugs of tea. And do the washing up afterwards.
‘Brutus!’ I called. ‘Come here, you bugger, and show me how to catnap again.’
He padded into the room and jumped onto the coffee table. That was strange – he normally ignored me when I shouted.
‘Problem.’ His whiskers quivered.
‘Problem with what?’
‘Problem.’
Honestly, he was more trouble than he was worth sometimes. ‘If you’re not going to elaborate…’
He lifted his head and stared at a high point on the wall behind me. Either I was being haunted or there was a spider. Brutus hates spiders.
‘Problem.’
‘You’re not going to let it go, are you?’ I pulled myself upright. ‘There’s nothing there, Brutus. Not even a cobweb. And behind the wall there’s nothing because that’s Eve’s fla
t.’ Then I froze. Brutus looked at me as if to suggest that I was incredibly dim-witted but I was finally beginning to understand. ‘Is it Harold?’ I demanded. Damn it, Eve would be devastated if anything happened to him while she was away.
Brutus started to wash his face. I grimaced and swung to my feet. That was clearly all I was going to get out of him; I’d have to see what was wrong for myself.
I pressed my ear against the wall. There was a dull thud from the other side. Someone was definitely in there; the question was who.
If Eve weren’t a witch, with her own specially pre-prepared magical wards (considered vital for anyone in the Order, even though they’re nothing more than a drain of energy and useless against non-magical invasions), I’d simply have cast a rune or two to work out who was in her flat. I wouldn’t have even had to open my front door. Alas, I knew my magic couldn’t penetrate her spells. I’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.
Cursing under my breath, I went into my Spare Room of Doom, so-called because it has become a dumping ground for everything I don’t need and now resembles a hell cave filled with mini-mountains of un-ironed clothes, random boxes and goodness-only-knows-what. Maybe, I thought hopefully, by the time I’d found what I needed, Eve’s visitor would have already vanished.
Poking underneath a pile of wrinkled blankets, I found my old canister of pepper spray, purchased for me by a well-meaning friend who’d been concerned that working as a taxi driver was an open invitation to be raped and dismembered, not necessarily in that order. Nah. I tossed it to one side in favour of a slightly smelly navy anorak and battered baseball cap. Then, at the last minute, I spotted an old ID badge from my short-lived, post-Order stint as a receptionist at a large pharmaceutical company. I grabbed it and pinned it to my chest, using a scarf to obscure most of the lettering. Once I was satisfied, I picked up the nearest cardboard box and headed out, whistling.
I ambled down the corridor, pausing when I reached Eve’s door. The low murmur of voices reached my ears: there was more than one would-be burglar. That didn’t bode well. Shifting the box in my arms, I raised my hand and knocked.
The voices immediately hushed. I knocked again. I couldn’t be arsed kicking down the door and attacking, especially when I was outnumbered and the people I hurt could be Eve’s long-lost brothers. Although if my ploy didn’t work, it would probably come to that.
Fortunately, whoever was inside was smart enough to know that I’d heard them and that pretending not to be there wouldn’t work. Unfortunately for them, they weren’t as smart as they thought.
The door opened and a dark-haired woman appeared. She was wearing jeans and a smart blouse and looked to be in her early thirties – and she was no one I’d ever seen before. I pasted on a suitably bored expression. ‘Eve Harrington?’
‘Yes.’
Liar. Suddenly granted silent permission to hurt her, I smiled. ‘I’ve got a delivery for you.’
She glanced at the box and held out her hands for it. ‘Thanks.’
I kept hold of it. ‘I need you to sign.’ I shrugged amiably. ‘The company insists. I’ve lost my pen though – at my last drop-off, the guy kept it. Can you believe it?’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t realise until I was halfway here. Honestly, you have no idea how many pens I go through in a month.’
Fake Eve stared at me. ‘That … sucks,’ she said finally.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘But I can’t leave without a signature. Do you have a pen inside?’
Her eyes shifted. I reckoned she was debating between her desire to say no and get rid of me as quickly as possible and her curiosity about what goodies she could nick from Eve’s delivery. Fortunately, the latter won. ‘Give me a minute.’
I beamed. ‘Great.’ Without giving her time to close the door on me, I barged past her. Everything inside looked okay. I cast around surreptitiously for Harold but he was nowhere to be seen.
‘Wait here,’ Fake Eve muttered, obviously annoyed that I’d gained entry.
Before she could turn away, a male voice called out from the living room. ‘Who was it?’
‘It’s just a delivery, darling.’ Her voice was strained.
Her partner-in-crime appeared at the open living-room doorway. He was dressed in a similarly casual fashion but he looked like someone who took life far too seriously. Although he was probably only a few years older than me, his face was lined; there was a deep cleft running from his forehead to the top of his nose that suggested he spent his days wandering around and glowering at everyone he met. When he saw me standing there, he definitely wasn’t any happier.
Fake Eve pointed at the box I was still holding. ‘I need a pen to sign for the delivery.’
He grunted and turned away. ‘I think there’s one in here. Wait a minute.’
There was a blur of movement and Harold’s furry shape leapt out of the room, claws scratching Eve’s wooden floor in his haste to escape.
‘Your cat,’ I began.
‘It’s fine,’ Fake Eve said. ‘She always does that. She’ll come back when she’s hungry.’
I cocked my head. ‘She? It looked like a male to me.’
Something flickered in her expression. ‘Force of habit. My last cat was a girl.’
Her companion re-emerged, holding a pen. I was now fairly certain that the two of them were alone. Things could have been worse. ‘Here. What do you need me to sign?’
‘Your arrest warrant,’ I said pleasantly.
It took a moment for my words to sink in. Fake Eve reacted first, leaping towards me, but I was already thrusting the box in her direction and she staggered backwards.
The man lunged for me, his panic causing him to throw a punch in my direction rather than attempt a spell. I saw it coming a mile off and sidestepped neatly, just as Fake Eve dropped the box and began to draw out a rune. Recognising it as one designed to break my bones, I launched myself towards the man, knocking him sideways so he crashed into Fake Eve and interrupted her spell. I got lucky: she stumbled, tripped against the low coffee table and fell to the floor with a heavy thump. Her partner just avoided being brought down with her and threw himself at me again.
It occurred to me belatedly that confronting these two had been a mistake. Harold was safe now and I wasn’t exactly a kung fu expert. Two against one hardly seemed fair. Fake Eve was already getting up, albeit rather slowly, and I didn’t rate my chances. Pretending not to understand Brutus would have been the sensible move but it was far too late now.
The man grabbed hold of me. I writhed, spinning round so that my back was against his. His grip was painfully strong and I didn’t have the strength to break free so I raised my foot and smashed it down onto his. He yelped and released me.
I darted away, breathing hard. Think, Ivy, I told myself. Just think.
I reached out blindly, my fingers curling round a glass paperweight holding down a neat stack of Eve’s bills. I raised it and threw it hard at the man who was advancing on me yet again. It smacked into the side of his head with a sickening crack. For a brief moment he looked stunned and then he keeled over, falling face down on the floor. Arse. I hoped I’d not killed him.
‘You little…’ Fake Eve hissed. ‘Who the hell are you?’
I’d have answered her if I’d still had the energy to speak. Unfortunately, I was so focused on her face and her words that I hadn’t noticed her hand by her side, already finishing another rune. This time I was too late to do anything about it. The only saving grace was that this time she’d opted for a less violent rune. Rather than being left limbless, I was thrown backwards, ending up pinned against the far wall, my feet dangling about a foot above the floor. I could barely blink, let alone do anything to defend myself.
‘I’ll say it again,’ Fake Eve said, with a furious toss of her head. ‘Who are you?’
My lips moved but no sound came out. She laughed at me. ‘Can’t talk, can you?’ There was a definite sneer to her voice. That really bugged me.
She might have been
a talented witch but she didn’t know everything. As she patted me down, looking for some kind of identification in my pockets, she didn’t realise that I was still able – just – to move my thumbs. What most witches don’t know is that having opposable thumbs isn’t only handy for fashioning tools. It can also be very helpful for magic. It is generally believed that performing runes requires at least four fingers and a thumb. I smiled smugly to myself. The Order don’t know everything. I’d been literally twiddling my thumbs one afternoon when I discovered entirely the opposite.
Using swift surreptitious movements to avoid alerting her, I twirled one thumb and sketched out a brief figure of eight with the other. It was hardly elegant and wouldn’t win me any prizes in a magic competition but it served my needs very well. Drawing in the magic that Fake Eve had used against me, I pulled the energy together and flung it back at her. As I fell to the floor, finally released from the invisible force that was holding me up, she was slammed back into the window and glued there spread-eagled like a squashed fly. Ha! Take that, witchy woman!
I limped over to the man and bent down to check him. He was still breathing. That was something, at least. I ran my hands over his body, unable to see any broken bones. Pursing my lips, I went into the kitchen to find something to tie them up with. Eventually I came across a long extension cord in one of Eve’s drawers. Struggling against the man’s weight, I heaved him into a sitting position and wrapped the cord round his wrists. Fake Eve glared at me the entire time but I ignored her. Her turn would come. I fashioned a gag for the man out of a dishcloth and added a few magical flourishes in case he happened to be Houdini and could wriggle his way free. Then I pulled off Eve’s curtain ties and stood in front of the woman. Her eyes spat fire.
‘Three,’ I said, watching her carefully. ‘Two. One.’ Nothing happened. I’d mistimed it. A second later, the spell wore off and she slumped to the floor. I reached down swiftly before she could react and looped the ties round her wrists and her feet, ensuring that the magic encircling her was even stronger than it was for her partner. Then I dragged her over to him so they were back to back.