Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
A fter a basically sleepless night, I trudge into the office, lugging my briefcase in one hand and my extra-enormous coffee in the other.
It’s Wednesday. Technically, it’s the day before my next story is due to copy editing. Bloody hell, I haven’t even started the piece. I’m waiting on Caden.
Will the magical book work again?
“Morning, Syd!” Holly pops her head in my office, blond curls framing her face in a way other women pay hundreds of pounds to reproduce, her cupid’s bow mouth painted an eye-catching red.
“Morning, Holly.”
“You look like shit. Sleep more. If you’re losing some over Caden’s sacking, problem solved. Meet Zain Denzell.”
As if Caden could be replaced with just any warm body…
When Holly steps back, a man edges forward—tall, lanky, and scruffy. Zain isn’t as easy on the eyes as my last photographer, but that’s probably a good thing. He sports inky black hair, a scraggly goatee, a crooked nose, and an office-inappropriate T-shirt that says Wanted: Meaningful overnight relationship .
But his eyes grab my attention. They don’t seem to be any particular color, just a murky…gray? Brown? Hard to tell. But they’re sharp and dissecting. Zain is used to people underestimating him, and he prefers it that way, I suspect.
“Hello.” I round my desk and stick out my hand.
Zain approaches, something between a walk and a swagger, then takes my hand. He’s not a big man, but his presence is huge. Something about him prods my gut to be cautious.
Or maybe I’m just gun-shy after Caden.
“How do you do?” he says with a nod. “Pleasure.”
I can’t say the same. Zain’s deference seems a bit too practiced. “How do you do?”
He grimaces. “Too awkward? Sorry. I’m a loner. Not used to mingling with others, especially before noon.”
Holly claps her hands. “Great, now that the introductions are over, you two should spend thirty seconds forming a meaningful work bond, then start making me money.”
With that cheerful demand, Holly leaves, shutting the door behind her. I roll my eyes, and Zain laughs.
“Is she always that…”
“Brash? Absolutely. If you hear people talk about Cruella, you know who they mean.”
Zain rubs his hands together. “We still have a few moments; tell me about you.”
I perch myself on the edge of my desk. “I’m a reporter with deadlines who doesn’t have time for crap. You may not believe my stories. If that’s the case, I don’t want to hear it.”
“No. I believe. Especially the magical war story.”
“That’s right. Holly told me you had pictures of the bodies in the tunnel. How did you get them?”
Zain hesitates. “I have a source who claims to be involved. That’s why I wanted to work here. I think we can blow the doors off this and make big names for ourselves.”
“A source directly involved in the magical war? And you don’t think he or she is mental? Tell me more.”
“Can’t, really. He didn’t meet with me. I got a note, you see, that basically told me that if I wanted an exclusive, to arrive at the tunnel in the middle of the night. I did, and I found the bodies while they were fresh.” Zain shrugs.
Odd. Should I believe him? “Was this note delivered to your home?”
He looks a bit sheepish. “It just…appeared in my flat. That sounds mental, but?—”
“Appeared?” Like poof , as in magic? “Has it happened again?”
Zain nods. “The last message said something big is coming, and he’d let me know.”
“Why you? Why not someone already working on this story?”
Zain lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve always been fascinated by magic.”
Possible, but it sounds convenient. My guess is that Zain wants this job and invented a reclusive source to get it. The pictures in the tunnel? For all I know, he photoshopped them. Time will tell.
I sink back to the edge of my desk, happy to put some distance between us. “I’m working on a new angle about that battle. But I’m having some difficulty. The last article I wrote?—”
“Was rubbish,” he blurts, then grimaces. “No disrespect intended. But you got it all wrong. Mathias is the good guy in the magical world. He wants to end oppression. At least according to my source.”
I slant Zain a considering stare. “I have a source, too, who claims Mathias repeatedly raped her. He doesn’t sound like a great bloke.”
“Energy,” Zain says. “Powerful emotions, commonly sex, fuel their magic, or so I’ve been told. They must have it frequently. She may have called it rape to win sympathy, but these people shag like mad to charge up.”
Talk about rubbish. First off, Aquarius’s cousin seems as if she was abused, not satisfied in a mutually consensual shag. The rest sounds like a tall tale. Besides, why would his source have confided this sort of information when it has nothing to do with the war?
“Interesting.” I give him a tight smile. “For my next story…”
The words I’ll just need a few pictures of this red book that grants sexual fantasies stick in my throat. He might wonder how I’d acquired such a book. And if he’s the sort who would lie about his inside information, he might also try to steal the little diary from me. After Caden and the terror Aquarius’s cousin has endured, it makes sense to be cautious.
He sits forward, his attention focused squarely on me. “Yes?”
“I’ve got it under control,” I lie.
“You don’t need me this week?”
“My last photographer already took pictures. But bring your snapshots of the bodies in the tunnel. I’ll look at those for my next piece. Oh, and ask your source why, if Mathias is the hero, did he abduct foreign soldiers who were found among the dead. And what does he make of the Doomsday Brethren?”
The afternoon both flies and drags. I craft a story about the magical diary. Internet searches turn up sites about Aleister Crowley, Harry Potter—even a supposedly magical cat. Useless. I’m no expert, but the markings on the book are too old to belong to Crowley, Potter is fictional, and as much as I love the fantastical, the cat capable of hocus-pocus is beyond even my belief.
Finally, buried a few pages down, I find some scholar’s works about a supposed magical diary dating back to King Arthur’s time. That angle fits best.
A grueling seven hours and a missed lunch later, I submit my story. I hope I’ve gotten it right. If not, I have until tomorrow to retract it and invent another, in case Caden fails to appear and authenticate the diary’s magical abilities.
I dig my keys from my handbag and unlock the door to my flat, my mind on the story and Zain. Have I done the right thing by refusing Zain’s help? Odd that the man hadn’t seemed at all puzzled when I mentioned the Doomsday Brethren. Maybe he’s been following my stories?
Deep in thought, I turn to shut the door.
“Sydney.”
I start at the deep voice. Gasping, I look up to find Caden standing under my shadowed portico, looming large.
He looks out of sorts, sweating and agitated. If he were anyone else, I would wonder if he was under the influence, but he hates losing control too much for that. But he’s here. He came!
“You scared me. Come in. I-I’m so sorry about Holly and?—”
“I don’t bloody care about the job.” He takes a step inside my flat, sheds his coat, then shuts the door behind him, his eyes boring into mine. “I couldn't stay away from you.”