Chapter 8 #3
You’re less experienced, she countered, although I could tell from the chagrin in her tone that she’d been going to say something closer to what I’d suggested.
I shot her a look over the rim of my coffee mug that said I knew as much.
You’re the baby, sunshine, she said gently. And after everything you’ve been through, we can’t help it. We’re going to worry.
Even as I resented it a little, I supposed it was nice, for once in my life, to have people who did worry about me—who cared enough to worry.
I could hear voices from the conference room—Ward, Mason, Beck, Fiona, and Elliot—presumably talking about the design for the table.
Or starting the process. I wasn’t sure exactly how Elliot was going to carve the table, whether he was going to use some sort of power tool or do it by hand, so I didn’t know if they were still talking, or if he’d started.
Not that it much mattered, although it was nicer to work to the sound of voices than it would be to the sound of some sort of drill.
I kept working, sorting through requests, slotting them into the schedule, replying to company emails getting more information from potential clients, checking inventory and placing orders.
It was straightforward work that didn’t ask much of me, mentally speaking, even though I knew it was both helpful and important to keeping Beyond the Veil running smoothly.
A notification popped up on my screen—a reminder that Ward had an appointment with Rodney Buckley, the pushy man from a few weeks ago, in about a half hour.
I liked to give myself some extra time to prepare for appointments, as people who were particularly nervous, or pushy, tended to show up early.
I walked over to the conference room, pausing in the doorway.
Elliot was, in fact, working by hand. He had a funny little tool that he was using to cut channels along carefully chalked lines, then inlaying them using long, thin strips of wood that he had soaking in buckets, pressing them into the channels, then using a small wooden hammer-thing to make them flat with the surface.
Every now and then, he’d hand the hammer to Ward or Mason or Beck to tap.
There were four different colors of strips—dark, red, gold, and pale—and I could tell from the small amount that was already finished that it was going to be stunningly beautiful.
“Do you need something, Rayn?” Ward asked, noticing me.
“Mr. Buckley has an appointment at two-forty-five,” I told him.
“Buckley?”
“Hart yelled at him,” I supplied.
“Oh, right.” He made a displeased face. “Great,” he muttered, then sighed. “I guess I’ll see him in my office.”
“Okay,” I replied, lingering for a few more moments to watch Elliot’s confident hands at work, then went back to my desk. I didn’t want to miss Mr. Buckley’s entrance.
Well, I did. But it was my job to be there when he arrived, and I assumed he’d be a lot more unpleasant if I wasn’t, at least based on the one encounter I’d had with him.
I settled back at my desk, keeping one eye on the door for Buckley as I entered receipts from Beck’s last exorcism for reimbursement. She enjoyed the fact that someone else would do the paperwork for her, and I didn’t mind the busywork.
I blinked, startled, when the door swung open emphatically, having—despite my intentions otherwise—gotten into a kind of rhythm with the financial spreadsheets and receipts.
I tried to make my face pleasant as I pulled up my gaiter mask, despite the rapid acceleration of my heart rate. “Good afternoon.”
Buckley’s eyes flickered around the reception area, and I wondered if he was looking for Raj and Hart.
Not finding anyone except me, he puffed up his chest. “Where’s the medium?
” he demanded, then narrowed his eyes at me.
“I have an appointment,” he declared, as though the words themselves were somehow magical talismans that would let him pass some kind of sigil or warding.
“Mr. Buckley, I assume?” I replied, trying to keep my voice even and polite, even though I mostly felt distaste.
He glowered at me. “I have an appointment,” he repeated.
“You are Mr. Buckley?” I tried again.
“Yes, I’m Rodney Buckley. Who the hell else would I be?” he snapped.
“Just making sure, Mr. Buckley,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even and calm. “I’ll just let Mr. Campion know that you’re here.”
“I can just—”
“I will let him know,” I interrupted, refusing to allow Buckley to overrun me—or Ward.
We had gotten an internal phone system set up a few months ago so that I could call back, like in a fancy corporate office. So I picked up the handset—which, thank God, only I ever touched—and hit the button for Ward’s office.
“Yes, Rayn?” he replied.
“Mr. Buckley is here,” I informed him. Buckley was about twenty minutes early.
“Are you going to be able to keep him out there?” Ward asked me. I had explained about his pushiness, so he was asking with good reason.
“I’ll send him back in fifteen, then,” I replied, loud enough for Buckley to hear.
I knew he had, because his face turned a funny shade of red.
I turned a smile on Buckley—I was hoping it looked friendly over the top of the mask, but I wasn’t sure I was succeeding at that.
“Mr. Campion will be with you in about fifteen minutes,” I told him.
“So you should be able to get started a little early,” I added, unable to resist including a reminder that he was the one who was inconveniencing us, and not the other way around.
Buckley turned slightly purple, then checked his watch.
I could see the thought process cross his face as he tried to decide whether or not to complain about the fact that he wasn’t being seen immediately, weighing it against the fact that his appointment wasn’t for another nineteen minutes.
I could tell that he very much wanted to insist that Ward meet with him right away, but I could also see him trying to decide whether or not respecting the medium’s time would get him the outcome that he wanted from the séance.
I’m not usually very good at reading people’s thoughts or emotions on their faces—just on the objects they touch—so the fact that he was that transparent to me should tell you just how belligerent and entitled he was.
He then proceeded to sit on the couch—which was there for clients to use while they were waiting—and sigh audibly approximately every three minutes.
I was actually impressed with the fact that I hadn’t fantasized about killing him more than twice during the fourteen minutes he sat there before Ward rolled himself out to the lobby.
“Mr. Buckey,” the medium said, his eyes tilting up at the corners over his black mask patterned with stars, although I could tell that the smile was more reflexive than genuine.
“I’m glad we were able to get you set up with an appointment.
” Ward is quite good at passive aggression—to the point where most people he uses it on aren’t even aware that he’s doing it.
I sometimes wondered how much people assumed he couldn’t possibly be sarcastic or mean because he was in a wheelchair.
The two things had nothing to do with each other, of course, but people’s thought processes often don’t make sense.
“I need you to summon my brother,” he said, not bothering with any sort of greeting whatsoever. “And make him tell me what he did with the money that should have been mine.”
I saw the twitch of muscle at the corner of Ward’s jaw that told me he was not going to enjoy this—and that he probably wasn’t going to go out of his way to get Buckley the results he wanted, if they were even possible.
“Come back to my office,” is what he said out loud.
“And we’ll get started.” Efficient, businesslike. Very not-Ward.
I set a timer on my phone for five minutes after the appointment was supposed to end, then tried to figure out a good excuse I could use to interrupt if Buckley was still there.