Page 7 of Clay White
“Associate Director Townsend is in a meeting.”
Almost certainly bullshit, but I didn’t call her on it. “Then he can take a break. I need to talk to him. People are dying.”
A flash of irritation showed on her face, which I considered a major victory. I continued to stare her down, even though both of us knew there wasn’t a damn thing I could do if she turned me away.
Biggs blinked first. She spent a moment working her tablet before looking up at me. “You may go ahead, Mr. White. He’s in—”
“I know where he is.” I took the plastic card she held out and stomped past her. When I reached the elevator bank, I flashed the card at the scanner. Although Townsend was only three floors up and I certainly could have taken the stairs, the card wouldn’t let me into the stairwell. The Bureau was careful about which parts of the building visitors could access.
The elevator doors whispered open, I stepped inside, and the doors closed. There were no buttons to press, but thanks to the card, the elevator knew where to take me. I wondered who was watching on the security cameras. Tipping my face upwards, I gave a mocking little salute.
The elevator released me into a long, nearly featureless corridor. None of the metal doors showed any markings, and they all had scanners rather than knobs. As I walked by, I imagined I could feel the invisible hexes on each threshold, meant to repel certain magics and unwanted inhuman visitors.
As an agent, I’d spent almost all my time in the field rather than at HQ. I hadn’t even had an office here, although they gave me a temporary space whenever I’d come in to work. Still, I’d walked this hallway countless times. It felt odd to be doing it again, without the weight of my badge in my pocket.
Townsend’s suite lay at the end of the hall, accessible through wooden double doors rather than metal. They opened as I approached, then shut behind me. His reception area was carpeted, the walls hung with landscape paintings, and the faint odor of lemon furniture polish tingled my nose. His assistant, Victor Holmes, smiled placidly from behind his enormous desk.
“He’ll be with you in a few minutes, Mr. White.”
Holmes was a tiny man, his face and body twisted from a brutal encounter with an ogre in Montana. But although he was confined to a wheelchair and appeared barely strong enough to lift a pencil, everyone except Townsend was terrified of him. Including me, to be honest. Something about the peculiar glint in his eyes. If I had to choose to fight either him or an ogre, I’d go with the ogre.
But today I didn’t have to fight Holmes.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked.
“No.” I didn’t sit in one of the heavy leather chairs either, instead choosing to pace the room and inspect the paintings as if I aspired to become an art critic. Holmes watched me.
It was interesting that nobody had searched me or asked me to hand over my weapons. Surely they knew I was armed. In fact, somewhere between the building’s front door and Townsend’s office, I’d undoubtedly been body-scanned, and my gun would have been easily visible inside my boot. Also the knife I kept as a backup in the other boot. Either they didn’t believe I was a threat or they were confident I couldn’t harm anyone.
I was peering at a scene of snowy mountains flanking a meadow when Holmes called my name. “You can go in now.”
The furniture in Townsend’s office was big and utilitarian—several battered gray filing cabinets, a cluttered bookshelf, an immense metal desk. He’d stuck newspaper clippings haphazardly on the walls, and everything reeked of cigarette smoke. Townsend himself stood behind the desk, overflowing his expensive suit, his smiling face an unhealthy ruddy color. As usual, a half-empty bottle of scotch perched on the surface in front of him, along with stacks of papers and an overflowing ashtray.
“This is a surprise, White.” He shook my hand with a heavy grip, collapsed into his oversized leather chair, and gestured at the low chair intended for visitors. Then he poured himself a glass of scotch. “One for you?”
“No thanks.”
“Given it up?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
I simply shrugged. After being severed from the Bureau, I’d spent a month or so drunk. But booze has never suited me, and I decided I wanted to spend whatever time I had left with a clear head. Besides, there are better ways to die.
“I hear you’re living up in Frisco,” Townsend said, despite knowing that nobody really called it that.
“Yeah.”
“Nice city, if you don’t mind freezing your balls off all summer. You staying out of trouble?”
“I guess.”
He lifted his glass, drained it in one swallow, then refilled it. Some of the guys used to say Townsend’s veins ran with nothing but scotch, and I’m not sure they were joking. If he’d ever become drunk, I’d never discerned it.
“You been seeing a shrink?”
“No.”
“I figured.” He tugged at one ear. “Psychologists. Sometimes they’re worse than wizards, you know? Least wizards get shit done. But sometimes a good headshrinker is what a fellow needs. Helps with the nightmares.” He tapped his forehead.
“I sleep fine,” I lied.
