I Hope You Can Hear Me
Milo
Downtown’s Colonial National Bank was once Roanoke’s tallest building.
Its striking facade, even in the middle of the night, screams wealth and prestige, but its neoclassical architecture is not the reason I selected it as the site for this spell.
The building is twelve stories tall, making its roof the thirteenth floor.
I tilt my head back to appreciate the monumental size of the task ahead of me.
From my current vantage point, leaning against the stoplights on the opposite corner of Campbell and Jefferson, I’ve been watching the bank’s security team through its impressively large windows that make up the first two floors for the last several minutes.
Ranger’s recent lesson in how to conduct a successful recce has taught me that the only way I’m getting onto the roof of the bank is by walking through the front door.
Of course, there’s the small inconvenience of the fact that the doors are locked, and even if I somehow get through them, I’d then have to get past the two security guards who are bathed in the blue light from the collection of monitors on the lobby desk.
And I haven’t seen them yet, but I’d bet an iced coffee that there’s at least two more guards patrolling the upper floors—Ranger also taught me that any organised team worth their salt always moves in pairs.
Straining, I narrow my eyes to read the time on the ornate stained-glass clock affixed to the corner of the building. Just past midnight. The two-faced timepiece is the other reason this building has to be the one I cast the spell from.
The low rumble of an approaching truck causes me to tug the bill of my borrowed ball cap lower. The white SUV slows as it meets the junction, then rides the curb outside the bank, and parks up on the widened sidewalk directly in front of it. The logo on the side reads Jackal Security Services.
From across the street I straighten, watching as a team of four men, who are all laughing and joking with each other, climb out and strap on utility belts, bulletproof vests, and other uniform items like peaked caps. This is the only chance I’m likely to get.
Inhaling, I ask myself, “What would the Dogs of War do?”
With nothing to lose, I right the straps of my backpack, and jog across the intersection toward the men. “Hey, guys, wait up.”
Two of the men look over their shoulders as I close the distance between them, continuing to holster their weapons and check their flashlights. The other two stop and turn bodily to face me.
“What’re you doing here, kid?” asks one of the men. He has a ruggedness about him that I think he’s trying to hide under a goatee, but he shares a certain something with Ranger.
When I’m only a few feet away, I stand to attention. “Pete told me to report here for the shift change at quarter past. Specifically, he told me that you hate it when trainees are late, so I made sure to get here early.”
Their rugged commanding officer narrows his eyes. “Who’s Pete?”
“He’s my…” I maintain my salute and somehow manage to shrug at the same time. “Case worker, I think he’s called. Officially. He’s responsible for trying to get me into full time employment.”
This isn’t entirely untrue, either. Pete is someone who works with me occasionally to see about more stable and long-term employment, because apparently selling shampoo isn’t that. It’s just that Pete didn’t send me here.
“Jesus, Matt. They’re sending us kids.” I let the insult slide because now I know the CO is called Matt.
Ignoring the partner, I speak directly to Matt.
“Pete said that tonight’s shift would be unpaid, that I’m here to shadow and learn only, and that pending a review, I’d then be able to get an interview with Jackal Security.
I was told to be on time and bring my best attitude, because ‘Matt wouldn’t want to feel like he was babysitting. ’”
Matt looks me over from head to toe. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five, sir.”
He rubs his jaw as he works it from side to side. “Stop that saluting stuff would you—that’s not even a recognisable action. Two tours in the sandbox and this is where I end up.”
I stand as straight as I can, holding eye contact with Matt the whole time.
His partner pipes up, “We gotta get in for handover. The kid can sit at the desk and watch the monitors or something.”
Matt seems unsure, and I press harder because that’s a great fucking idea. “Is that the Operation Post? I’m excellent at watching screens, sir. I can play The Sims for five hours straight and not see double after. So I can definitely do that.”
Matt tilts his face skyward and mutters what I think might be a prayer for strength. “At least you came appropriately dressed… sorta. You borrow your dad’s jacket?”
I glance down then, and smooth my hand over the soft leather of the sleeve.
It’s Rowan’s jacket: the one he’d draped over me like a blanket when I napped in the truck yesterday…
two days ago? I’ve lost track of time a bit because of the crazy schedule the Dogs have been keeping.
Those guys can just go and go—like the bunny from the battery advert.
But I must have taken it up to my room from the truck at some point, because it was in there when I got dressed earlier, and while Ranger is very much not my boyfriend, his jacket is larger and cosier than mine.
“Hey, kid? Y’okay?”
I blink. “Huh?”
“You spaced out there a bit. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned your dad.”
“Oh, erm, yeah. He’s dead.”
Matt nods and puts a hand on my shoulder. He steers me around the truck and toward the closed bank doors.
I can’t quite suppress the small smile that tugs at my lips. Dead parents… kills the conversation every time. But that wasn’t whose loss I’d been mourning.
Tucking my neck, I shrug my shoulders high up about my ears, and inhale Rowan’s earthy, spiced scent that’s worked its way into the leather over time.
Matt pulls out a chain of keys from an expanding cable attached to his utility belt and unlocks the door. “So, what do we call you?”
I keep the lower half of my face buried in the collar of Rowan’s jacket when I answer. “Magpie.”
Matt scoffs, but doesn’t speak otherwise. He directs me toward the other two security staff, who stand to greet us, and addresses the man who steps out from behind the desk. “Morning, Manny.”
Manny gives Matt a tight smile, spares a cursory glance for the others, then turns dark eyes set deep under brows that are as bushy as his moustache my way. “?Quién es esta persona?”
“Manny, this is Magpie. He’s joining us tonight on a work placement. Sent by Pete. His skill set includes playing The Sims for multiple hours straight, so he’s gonna sit right there…” Matt nudges me toward the seat Manny just vacated.
“Can I use the bathroom before I start?” I add a little bounce to help sell it. “I was too nervous about being on time and making sure I was alert, so I had a few coffees, but then I stood waiting on the corner for like twenty minutes, and now—”
Matt shoots his right arm out in a sudden straight line towards the sign that reads “staircase” and “public restroom.”
“Go.”
Not needing to be told twice, I jog across the expansive marble-floored lobby and through the heavy fire door. Only when it swings shut behind me do I breathe out in relief.
Stage one: clear.
Likely, I only have a few minutes before Matt gets suspicious and comes to find me—I need to be long gone when he does. Focusing, I count five closed doors immediately in front of me: three are for the restrooms, one cleaning supplies, and the other is a fire exit.
Pushing through that door, I enter a cold and empty concrete stairwell. Craning my neck, I look straight up the middle of all twelve floors, then question my life choices in Scottish. “Bollocks.”
With a resigned sigh, I ascend at a speed somewhere between a fast walk and a jog. I have to get out of this stairwell before anyone’s sent to find me, but also, I’m not a werewolf, and the idea that I could simply run up all the fifty billion steps between me and the roof is laughable.
By the third floor, my thighs are burning.
By the fifth floor, my lungs are audibly protesting each breath by marking them with a loud wheeze.
By the eighth floor, I’m more than considering whether the roof is strictly necessary. Nine is also a significant number in witchcraft, and therefore surely it would be just as effective at aiding my spell cast?
But Sarah’s voice in my mind pushes me to the eleventh floor: “It has to be thirteen because you’re a solitary warlock, and that number signifies the strength of a traditional coven.”
Halfway between the eleventh and twelfth floors, the door at the bottom of the stairwell crashes open, and I instantly flatten myself against the stairwell wall. My heart pounds hard inside my ribs, sweat trickles down my spine, and each breath pants out at a rapid rate.
“Magpie? You in here, kid?”
Turning my head, I press my cheek against the cold concrete. A floor and a half—that’s all that’s left—and then I’ll be on the roof. As fast as I dare, I continue climbing… but just sideways, like a crab.
“Shit!” Matt exclaims, and the fire door far below closes with a definitive click.
Peeling myself from the wall, I run up the last few steps and push the security bar to burst out through the roof access.
The wind up here is much stronger than it was at street level; it catches the door and slams it back into the wall of the bulkhead. Cringing, and shoulders darting up about my ears, I freeze in place.
My chest heaves, but when, after a moment, the world doesn’t immediately end, I race to pull the door shut. I made it.
Leaning my back against it, I take out my phone to check the time… 00:22.
Hot and bothered, and in need of a moment, I drag the ball cap from my head. The wind instantly whips my white-blond hair everywhere, and some strands stick to my sweaty face. It’s annoying, but also refreshing.