by Alex Rivers
There were two armed men at the entrance gates, both looking at me with a mask of boredom as I got closer.
“Name?” one asked.
“Bethany Holt,” I said, giving the name Sinead had secured for the waitress role. Bethany Holt was a girl we both knew; she had been in Breadknife’s gang. She was one of the nastier people there, always searching for ways to bully the kids around her. She had homed in on Sinead, who’d unfortunately had a serious acne problem when we were sixteen, calling her the most unimaginative name available—pizza face. One memorable night, we filled Bethany’s bed with pizza sauce and Vaseline, and there was much rejoicing. We were a sophisticated bunch.
He checked his papers, then took a cursory look at the fake driver’s license I produced. Finally, he nodded at me, and I walked past the gate. For a second, my skin tingled strangely, and I wondered if it was Ddraig Goch’s senses as they sniffed at the stranger in his lair.
A group of young men and women stood a few yards away on the paved walkway to the entrance. They were looking around them, with expressions of awe mixed with nervousness, at the vast expanse of lawn that served as the front garden. It was already dark, and it was almost impossible to see the far ends of the garden; the darkness swallowed it. I pegged the group to be the rest of the waitstaff. One of them, a slightly older guy with an air of self-importance, strode toward me. He had a long cucumber-ish face, with hair that seemed like someone had doodled it with a black marker on his scalp. He had a large bag on his shoulder.
“Bethany Holt?” he said.
“That’s me.”
He glanced at his wristwatch, his lips twisted in displeasure. I had arrived three minutes late, and apparently this was his way of letting me know of his dissatisfaction. After a second or two of staring at his watch pointedly, he let out a long breath through his nose. It was probably part of the entire charade, but his sinuses were quite clogged, and the end of his breath was a soft squeak. He reddened and eyed me with anger, as if this was my doing. I made sure to remain perfectly composed, and did my best to remember the squeak’s exact pitch for when I told Sinead about it later.
“Right!” he said. “Now that you’re finally here, we can start.”
I joined the rest of the staff, and he stood in front of us, hands clasped behind his body.
“My name is Jonathan Roth, and I am the banquet captain,” he said. “The banquet’s guests tomorrow evening are very high class, and will expect a certain standard from the people serving them.”
He looked at each and every one of us carefully and then sniffed, as if we were all lacking in the quality that was expected by those important people. “To that end, we will discuss some basic rules.”
Thus began the long list of Jonathan Roth’s rules. I zoned out after rule three: Ladies are always served first. Instead of listening, I began mentally listing the security measures I spotted around me. Inside the garden I could spot three more security cameras, and I guessed there were more hidden within the mansion’s walls. We’d known about their existence, of course. We would be monitored at all times once we entered the mansion. Even if they didn’t sound the alarm as we crept through the hallways, they would be able to look through the stored footage later and identify us. That also meant that today, when I went to plug in Harutaka’s USB stick, I would probably be visible on the security monitors.
A man was patrolling the walls, carrying a submachine gun, and I was willing to bet that on the night of the banquet there would be more. Trying to enter the grounds over the wall would be suicide. No. The only way inside would be through the front gate, as guests or staff.
The group around me was moving, the monologue apparently over. Jonathan led us down the path and through a back door to the kitchen. It was huge, and already teeming with cooks and smells that made my stomach grumble. He gave an explanation of the various dishes we would serve during the banquet, and pointed out a few of the chefs’ names. Two of them had won on some reality cooking show. One owned a Michelin two-star rated restaurant. Jonathan let that sink in for a moment. Once he had ascertained we were suitably impressed, he led us to the dining room. Or dining hall. Or dining stadium. Whatever you called that.
It was an enormous hall, lined with round tables, the wooden floor polished to a high gleam. There were several huge windows along one wall, and the entire space was lit by a chandelier that probably cost more than my entire store. A double door stood at the far end, leading, I knew, to the lobby. Another armed guard stood by the door. The tables were covered in tablecloths, but were not set yet. That, Jonathan explained, was what we were there to do this evening.
“It’s important you get this right. I will be making sure that each seat is set correctly. If you mangle it, I will make you do it again. Here’s the order. Dinner plate, with a salad plate on top. To the left, dinner fork, salad fork, and napkin, in a classic three-point fold. If any of you doesn’t know what that is, please let me know and I’ll have you escorted from the premises.” He laughed, or I think that was what he did. It was a wheezy, slightly deranged kind of sound, ending with a snort and a slight squeak from his malformed nose. One of the young waiters followed suit, giggling slightly, marking himself as the group’s ass-licker. The rest of us stood silent.
“Okay.” Jonathan cleared his throat. “Dessert fork above the plate. To the right we have dinner knife, teaspoon, and soup spoon. I want an inch and a half between each utensil. If you need a ruler, feel free to ask for one.”
By the time he finished his explanation, Jonathan’s armpits were visibly wet. As the waiters milled around the room, starting to set the tables, I saw him open his bag and retrieve a fresh shirt from it. It was a garment bag, which he had obviously brought with him, expecting this problem. Jonathan’s squeaky nose was accompanied by a sweating problem.
I couldn’t spot the security camera, but that was no surprise. Inside the mansion, the cameras would be well hidden. I hazarded a guess that it was in the chandelier. There would be more, all over the mansion. The blueprints didn’t note where the cameras were installed, but Breadknife’s notes made it clear that every hallway and every room was well monitored. The security room was near the lobby, and it was a safe bet that a guard was positioned there at all times, scrutinizing the security feeds.
I eyed the guard by the door. He was a slight complication, but not one I hadn’t anticipated. I’d just have to be careful and fast.
I went over to one of the carts with the cutlery, and began to set one of the tables, copying the actions of an experienced waitress nearby. I didn’t really know which was the salad fork and which was the dinner fork, nor any of the other cutlery names. But I was more than capable of giving them my own names. Papa fork went by baby fork, to the left of the dishes, while mommy fork went above them. Mister knife and his two girlfriend spoons, big mama and little minx, went to the right. Folding the napkin took a bit of work, but after a few attempts I got it right. By the third place setting I was a professional, and even got an appreciative grunt from Jonathan as he went past.
Looking around at the very slow progress, I determined it would take about four hours to get the entire hall set to Jonathan’s standards. I decided to make my move about halfway through the evening, when the drudgery and repetitiveness of the job would make everyone in the room inattentive.
After fifteen minutes of cutlery fun, the double doors opened, and the unmistakable Maximillian Fuchs marched inside. Even without our earlier surveillance, I would have immediately pegged him as the man in charge. The hair at the back of my neck prickled at the sight of him, though I couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason. He was very tall, his face pale and sharp, his eyes dark. His hair was a shock of white, but not the white hair of an old man. More like the white of a blank page. He wore a dark blue suit that seemed timeless—a suit that a man could wear in the thirties, or today, and radiate the same amount of authority and importance.
He stood motionless, inspecting us as we worked in silence. N
o one joked or laughed or talked under his scrutiny. Everyone knew instinctively to remain quiet and professional. I began imagining that his eyes were following me in particular. Was it possible that he could sense something was off about me? My palms began to heat up, and I focused on memories of Christmas with my parents, opening gifts early in the morning, shrieking with joy as they stood above me, smiling. My breathing became steadier, my heartbeat slowed.
All he did was stand and look at us. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong with the man, but I didn’t know why. I kept waiting for him to leave, but he didn’t. Finally, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. I would have to sneak out with Maximillian looking.
Jonathan was ranting at one of the waitresses, who had mixed up her mommy fork and baby fork. I interrupted him mid-rant.
“Excuse me, where’s the bathroom?” I asked.
He motioned impatiently at the double door with the guard. “What hovel did you work in before you came here?” he shouted. “Was it Kentucky Fried Chicken? What sort of amateur does that?”
I walked away, approaching the guard by the door. I clutched my stomach slightly and winced. “Hey,” I said, my voice slightly tight. “Which way to the ladies’ room?” I felt Maximillian glancing my way, and tried to ignore his look.
“Just go out to the lobby, first door to the right,” the guard answered, his face sympathetic.
“Thanks.” I grimaced, clutching my stomach a bit tighter, and opened the door, closing it behind me.
Okay, I’d definitely established my need to go number two. That meant I had about ten minutes before the guard began wondering where I was. I glanced at my watch. Nine fifteen.
The lobby was grand and spacious, but I had no time to waste gawking. Was there a man in the security room, watching me right now? I was almost sure there was. After all, a single waitress roaming the hallways was something that stood out.
I felt in my pocket for the vial I had with me, and palmed it. Then I wandered around a bit, as if searching for the bathroom, checking behind a few doors, carefully staying away from the actual bathroom. Finally, I beelined directly to the door of the security room and opened it.
A middle-aged guard sat there, and as I had thought, he was studying a row of monitors, one of which displayed me, standing by the doorway. He swiveled his chair and looked at me balefully.
“Oh, sorry!” I said. “I was looking for the bathroom?”
“Does this look like the bathroom?” the man asked impatiently.
“I’m really sorry.”
He stared at me, but I didn’t budge, wearing my slightly confused expression. I used the time to watch the monitors, trying to figure out the locations of the security cameras.
Finally he sighed. “Just across the lobby.” he sighed. “White door. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, sir,” I said.
He had already swiveled away.
My thumb flicked open the vial hidden in my palm. I quickly upended it into a trashcan to the side of the door, holding my breath. The few drops of liquid dribbled into the can, and I could already glimpse the fumes rising. I left the room, closing the door behind me. Then I went to the bathroom.
The vial had contained a sleep draught. Not a lot—I didn’t want the security guard to fall into a deep sleep. It would be too suspicious if he was found later. No, I just wanted him to be drowsy enough to be unable to focus. Even if he noticed me in the monitors later, he would remember I was the dim-witted girl who went to look for the bathroom, and would be too sleepy to care.
The potion should work in about two minutes, but he was a bit fatter than I had planned, and I decided to give him three minutes. I put on my Bluetooth earphone, and connected to the voice chat.
“Okay, almost there,” I said. “Just waiting for the dude in the security room to nod off.”
“Good,” Harutaka’s voice piped in my ear. He sat in the nearby lawyer’s mansion with his laptop, waiting.
I counted the seconds, checking the time. Twenty past nine. Good enough. The guard in the security room should be fighting to keep his eyelids open by now.
I left the bathroom, and opened one of the doors. It led to a hallway I knew well from the blueprints. I strode down the corridor, ignoring the doors to my left and right, until it branched. I took a right, and walked to the end of the corridor. To my left was a door, which led to the server room.
I opened it, slid inside, and closed it behind me.
It was cold here, and dark. Blinking lights revealed there really were several computers. Harutaka had been right. I approached the closest one and checked behind it, using a small flashlight to shine a dim light on its surface. There was an available USB port amid the spaghetti of wires attached to it.
I suddenly hesitated. “Listen… I’m in the server room. I can plug your USB stick in one of the computers. But if I leave it plugged in, someone might find it later.”
“Don’t worry,” Harutaka said, sounding amused. “No one will find it.”
“Okay,” I muttered.
I removed the USB stick from my neck, the strange black stone that covered it feeling warm. The red rune pulsed slowly, like a strange heartbeat, almost as if it sensed the proximity of the computers. I plugged it into the port.
“Okay, it’s in.”
“Give it a minute.”
I waited, hopping from foot to foot, hoping the guard in the security room really was nodding off. Then, the rune in the stone began to glow brighter. Its red color changed to orange, then white, emanating a blinding bright light. I squinted at it in astonishment. Then the stone and the rune seemed to liquefy, crawling through the USB port into the computer, disappearing from sight.
The room sank back into darkness. The USB port was empty. The stone had vanished.
“Holy shit.” I wheezed.
Harutaka cackled in my ear. “Cool, huh? Okay, give me a moment—I’m connected, and already breaking the walls. Some nice security here, nothing earth-shattering. Oh, is that an actual cyber demon? I thought those were extinct…” There was a sudden sound of static, and a spark flashed from one of the computers. “Well, maybe now they are. Just a few more seconds… There! I’m inside.”
“Okay, can I leave?”
“Just a second, let me see… there we go. I have eyes on you now. You can wave.”
I waved.
“Hey! I can see you!” Harutaka sounded drunk.
“Awesome. Can you see the dude in the security room?”
“Yeah. He’s barely awake. Keeps shaking his head.”
“Can he see me?”
“Well, if he looks at the monitors, sure. But hang on, I’ll fix that.” A second later he said, “There. I killed the security footage around you. Just for a few seconds. Enough time for you to get back to the rest of the catering staff.”
I went out the door, and began striding quickly down the hall.
“This is so cool,” Harutaka buzzed in my ear. “I have almost full access to all their files. I’m going to have a party with… Shit! Stop! Go back! Someone’s coming your way!”
But it was already too late. A guard rounded the corner, and as our eyes met, his fingers tensed around the grip of his submachine gun.
Chapter Nineteen
We stood frozen for a fraction of a second and then I marched over to him, my face twisting into an expression of fury.
“Excuse me?” I said loudly. “What is the meaning of this?”
He blinked, surprised. “I’m sorry?”
“This!” I pointed at his right boot, where the tip was slightly scuffed. “You were all told to keep your boots in good shape. Is this how you maintain your uniform?” I hoped fervently that the security staff was large enough to account for unfamiliar people.
“Uh… I shined the boots last week. I thought—”
“You must shine them Every. Single. Day. You should know that by now.”
Harutaka’s voice whispered in my ear. “Oka
y, I have the personnel file open. The photo here matches him to the dot, he’s our guy. According to the file, he’s called Gavin Pollard. And you’re in luck. He was hired only two weeks ago. He probably knows nothing about anything.”
“You’re that new guy, right?” I placed my hands on my hips. “Mollard?”
“Uh… Pollard. Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, Pollard. Since you’re new, I’ll give you a break. But you better shape up. This is not a job at mall security. This is the real deal. This is Ddraig Goch’s mansion. You know that, right?”
“Last week he was docked a day’s pay for not cleaning his gun,” Harutaka murmured.
“Of course, ma’am, I…”
I grabbed the submachine gun and lifted it to my eye, peering into the barrel. My heart hammered hard with the thing pointed straight at my face.
“Looks like you’re learning to maintain your weapon, at least,” I said. “Don’t want last week to repeat itself, do we?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Look, Pollard, I’ll level with you, I talked with your shift captain…”
“Frank Lowe,” Harutaka said.
“Lowe,” I continued. “He said you look promising. And I trust his judgment. But if I ever see you walking around here with your boots looking like that again, you’re out. You got that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath, realizing that if he saw me rejoining the serving staff, all would be lost. “For the rest of the shift, I want you to stay out of sight. There are people here preparing the dining hall for tomorrow, and I don’t want the state of your boots to disgrace us. So go patrol the southern wall until they’re gone, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m really sorry.”
“Just don’t let it happen again, Mollard.”
“Pollard. Yes, ma’am.”
