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I glanced at the necklace Morrow was wearing, the one that summoned his holographic not-quite-glasses. It made me think of the fragmentation tablet he’d gifted me in return. Okay. Fine. I couldn’t stay mad at him, or his cute, stupid, cute face.
Director Sakamoto swiped at her tablet and hummed to herself as if we weren’t even there. Morrow raised his hand up to the reader by her exclusive elevator’s doors, bypassing the code input. Most companies swiped ID cards to do that, didn’t they?
I winced at the thought that the scanner picked up on a chip inside his hand, the same one that holomagically projected Occultech’s proprietary user interface as well as the occasional terrifying video call with Enyo Sakamoto.
We normally needed the director to send us down from her penthouse, but since the battle in the Occultech basement, Morrow’s access had been upgraded. Not quite a promotion, but a sign of his upward trajectory through the ranks all the same.
The upgrade also included access to even lower levels of the basement, where they probably kept even more dangerous artifacts and creatures in their combination museum and menagerie. I shuddered at the thought. Whether it was Sakamoto’s office at the highest peak of HQ or the infernal depths of the basement, Morrow’s upgrade really didn’t feel like an upgrade at all.
We rode down together in silence. I was too busy processing the horrible possibility that the Goddess of the Valley was still hanging around. God, I couldn’t even get myself to think her name. Call it an overabundance of caution. I had plenty enough problems with spell fragments lingering in my brain. There was simply not enough room for anxiety and paranoia, too.
The doors slid open to the spacious Occultech lobby, waiting lounges to either side of the room, the somewhat intimidating reception counter up front. A woman with a familiar cloud of white hair was already sitting there. I glanced at the set of analog clocks above the sliding front doors, an array of different time zones, plus that unsettling last one that didn’t end at the twelfth, but the thirteenth hour.
Morrow leaned on the counter to greet her with his odd, only occasionally conjured charm. I did my best from her other side, still puzzled by how early she’d arrived.
“It’s still light out,” I told Doris. “I’ve never seen you here so early.”
Doris grumbled. “I was joking about being the gargoyle at the gates, Frost. It’s not like I turn to stone in daylight and become a beautiful beast of a woman at night.”
Morrow waggled his eyebrows. “A beautiful beast indeed.”
Doris muffled her coquettish giggle with one hand and slapped him on the arm. “You’re a terrible flirt. And not that it’s any of your business, Frost, but I’m taking extra shifts. I need a quick cash infusion. After those hoodies attacked, I think I need another weapon.”
I glanced down at the counter. Occultech’s people worked fast. The last time I saw it, it was still pockmarked from the impact of so many magical spells — or miracles, as the cultists liked to think of their goddess-granted powers. It was a miracle that Doris survived the initial ordeal in the lobby unscathed, but then again, the lady was packing.
I never would have guessed that someone who worked in reception would have access to — ah, there it was. Doris slammed her Occultech-brand shotgun on the counter.
“Occultech won’t issue me a second enchanted firearm. Pssh. Says receptionists are limited to one piece apiece. I just don’t know if hexed buckshot is going to cut it the next time we get swarmed by vermin.”
My eyes went wide open. “You think there’s going to be a next time?”
“It pays to be vigilant,” Morrow said. “The cultist attack was an anomaly. Occultech has enough enemies of its own — rival corpos, for example.”
“Maybe a sidearm,” Doris murmured absently. “Or a rocket launcher?”
“Good luck with that,” I told her, reaching for Morrow’s arm. “And don’t work yourself too hard, Doris!”
Morrow stumbled after me. Doris reached for a cloth to lovingly polish her boomstick as she dreamily gazed off.
“If you wanted to hold hands,” Morrow said out on the sidewalk, “you only had to ask.”
I ignored the flutter in my stomach. “She’s right. You are a terrible flirt. Listen. About extra shifts. Club Debussy has a couple bartenders, but Xavi told me that Anita Cocktail has been picking up extra shifts, too. Something about saving up for a vacation. What say we hit the club tonight?”
He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing into slits. “You’re just looking for an excuse to see me in a tight T-shirt again, aren’t you?”
He knew about my stupid little crush. He had to know. I wanted to kick him in the shins, or punch him in the gut, or kiss him hard on those annoying pouty lips.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snarled in response. “Pick me up at nine. I don’t feel like driving tonight. And don’t be late.”
Morrow grinned. “It’s a date.”
My stomach did a somersault.
“Shut the fuck up, Morrow,” I said, cheeks burning like fire as I hurried back to my car.
CHAPTER 3
Tiny charms jingled and clinked from Anita Cocktail’s wrist as she worked on her makeup, staring hard into Club Debussy’s dressing room mirror. The border of hot lightbulbs framing the mirror, the explosion of neon feathers and scintillating sequins on all the racks of clothes — I didn’t know how any of these queens could work here without passing out from overstimulation.
