The Fell

by Adam Dark

  Ben couldn’t help himself. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  6

  “Benjamin, allow me to introduce my New England associates,” Richard Monday said, turning his head and dipping his chin just a little at the man in the tweed jacket. “This is Mr. Rufus Dirre.” Rufus nodded with a small smile, which was definitely more lively than most of Richard Monday’s expressions. “And I believe you already know Ms. Anita Cassok.”

  Yes. Yes, he did. Only Ben knew her as Anita Librarian from all his humiliatingly useless interactions with the woman at Mugar Memorial Library.

  “Welcome, Ben,” she said. And she actually smiled at him, which might have been the absolute weirdest thing he’d experienced all day. He’d come to think of her as a machine, who had a heck of a lot more important things to do than to offer him so much as a glance that lasted for more than two seconds—during a conversation.

  ‘I did not see that coming,’ Ian offered.

  Uh-huh.

  “What…” Peter moaned, his voice rising in pitch.

  Anita nodded at him next. “Peter.”

  This was nuts.

  “Wait, is this a BU-affiliated thing?” April asked, lifting her hands to roll them around each other for a second before she dropped them again.

  “Absolutely not, Miss Balcom,” Richard Monday said, glancing at her for only a second. “The university is merely another channel of information.”

  “Hold up,” Chase said from the other side of the lab. “Am I missing something, here?”

  Oh, what? With all his illegal hacking skills, the guy hadn’t managed to stalk them into the Boston University library too? If Ben wasn’t still so shocked and more than a little pissed off about this new revelation, he would have really enjoyed Chase’s first acknowledgment of how clueless he was.

  “She works at BU’s library,” April said, glancing at Chase before what she said seemed to make even less sense, and she frowned.

  “I don’t know,” Peter muttered. “Does she actually?”

  “Of course,” Anita replied. “I’ve been working at Mugar for… oh, the last fourteen years. I very much enjoy it.”

  Could have fooled Ben. Every time he’d seen her there behind the front desk, she’d only ever looked at her computer screen—and him—with a resentful scowl. Like she hated college kids and conversation and especially Ben Robinson.

  Trying to somehow figure out what the heck was going on, Ben had no idea what to do with his hands, so he stuck them into the pockets of his jeans and glanced from Richard Monday to Anita Librarian to this Rufus Dirre. At least that guy was new. “Okay, so what is this?” Yes, he sounded pissed. Because he was. He hadn’t really known what to expect when he’d gotten Richard Monday’s invitation to meet him here, but now everything he thought he knew about demon-hunting and that whole creepy, hidden world was starting to feel like a lie—pretty much like the rest of his life before he figured out he actually could make a difference.

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ Ian said.

  Whatever that meant.

  “This,” Richard Monday replied, lifting a hand to his chest and sweeping it aside to indicate his—what?—associates, “is the New England chapter of the Sectarian Circle.” The man looked quite proud of himself until he blinked and looked like he was about to take a bow. “Or at least its figureheads, if you will.”

  “If we will what?” Peter said it like he was talking in his sleep.

  Ben couldn’t blame him for asking the question in a weird way like that; his brain was scrambled too. But it got the point across. What the hell was this?

  Richard blinked at Peter. “Benjamin,” he said, then looked back at Ben and took a deep breath. “We wish to extend you an invitation to join us in our work.” The man licked his lips, then clasped his hands in front of his chest again, waiting on the answer he seemed so sure he was going to get.

  Ben snorted. “I still literally have no idea what you’re talking about.” He was missing some huge piece of the puzzle, and maybe it was right there in front of him. If it was, he was too confused and a little freaked out to put it together himself. Except for the fact that Richard and Anita—sure, and maybe even this Rufus guy—had been stalking him for months, had somehow figured out that Ian shared his body, and asked him to come here for this secret thing, where he could invite his associates if he wanted even though Richard didn’t actually address any of them by their first name. Except for Ben. Benjamin. Come on.

  Rufus barked out a laugh, his voice surprisingly low and huge in the lab for such a short guy. He reached up to put a hand on their host’s shoulder and grinned at all their guests. “Richard likes to get ahead of himself,” he said. Whether or not he was making a joke at the taller man’s expense, Richard Monday still stared at Ben with absolutely no reaction whatsoever. “And it sounds like he hasn’t told you anything.”

  “Nope.” Chase sounded just a little too chipper when he said it, and Ben turned around to glare at him. The guy’s eyes widened, and he just shrugged; apparently, none of this was particularly strange to him—just unexplained. Or, if the guy was weirded out, he was handling that part pretty well. At least Ben knew what a freaked-out Chase looked like.

  “I think we might have to start from the beginning,” Rufus said, tilting his head up to look sideways at Richard Monday.

  The taller host cocked his head and frowned a little, like the idea of having a real, intelligible conversation was a massive disappointment. “Hmm. Of course. Who’s hungry?”

  ‘Okay,’ Ian said, ‘I know you don’t like calling people crazy…’

  At least Ben wasn’t the only person thinking it. Richard Monday had lost his mind. Granted, that might have been a little unfair, but when the world had thought Ben was crazy—between that night at the abandoned house eleven years ago and Ben refusing his meds at the end of high school—he’d never acted this much off his rocker.

  “I’m sorry?” April turned toward Ben, her mouth open in a confused little ‘o’, and took a deep breath. “Did he just ask if we—”

  “Excellent.” Richard clapped his hands together just as another door slid open from the wall—this time on the other side of the lab. It wasn’t that close to the massive version of Peter’s demon-stone cabinet and all those blue cables, but looking in that direction still made Ben a little nervous. Which didn’t make sense. This door didn’t let out a hydraulic hiss or separate from the wall; instead, it looked more like an elevator door camouflaged really well against the lab’s steel wall. The room beyond the door looked pretty much like an elevator too, only three times a normal elevator’s size.

  And there was the gray-haired man in the linen pants who’d opened the front door to Richard Monday’s mansion-museum. Ben had completely forgotten about the guy, but apparently, he was still part of the picture. Their newest arrival stepped backward out of that giant elevator, pulling a service cart that seemed to stretch impossibly long before finally leaving the enclosed space. A white cloth draped down over both sides of the cart, and on top of it sat a huge, ornately crafted silver platter, complete with the fancy addition of a domed silver lid covering whatever they’d find underneath it. At the back of the cart hung a number of folding metal chairs, which looked really weird right next to the obviously expensive silver platter; they were not of the same caliber, to say the least.

  “Thank you, Anton,” Richard said, his voice flattened out like roadkill once again.

  Anton—the butler?—nodded and stopped the service cart beside the round table where Richard Monday had removed and maybe replaced his glasses. Then the man collected all the other pairs of exactly the same glasses from the table and lined them up one by one on the closest table squared around, yes, the stupid fax machine.

  “It smells wonderful, Anton,” Anita Librarian said, stepping around the squared computer tables toward the service cart. “I think I look forward to your cooking more than anything else.” Her voice had taken on this odd, syrupy sweetness; never in a m
illion years would Ben have guessed she was capable of sounding quite like that.

  When he looked up at her, Anton fiddled with his own hands for a moment, and his face turned bright red in an instant. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and nodded curtly. “Then I won’t change a thing, Ms. Cassok. The pleasure is mine.”

  ‘Holy crap, look at these two lovebirds,’ Ian muttered.

  No way. But actually, that was exactly what it looked like. Anita grinned at Anton, Anton kept blushing, and Ben started to get itchy now because all of this was so completely weird.

  “Yes,” Richard Monday said, walking slowly toward the round table sans glasses and the service cart. He seemed a little fixated on that silver platter and didn’t look up at anyone. “Anton is exceptional at everything he does. That’s why I keep him around.” It wasn’t said as a joke or an endearing compliment; the man said it like he was explaining gravity. ‘Gravity exists. That’s why we fall down when we trip.’ When the man leaned forward over the platter, he glanced up at Anton and asked, “Have you eaten?”

  As if that question were a physical pull, the gray-haired man blinked furiously and finally looked away from Anita. “I have, Richard. Thank you. I’ll be upstairs finishing the last few items for the day, if you need me for anything further.”

  “Of course.” Richard was already staring back down at the platter’s ridiculously shiny silver lid again. His employee—that was what Anton had to be, right?—glanced at Anita again but quickly looked away to meet Ben’s gaze. He nodded, and ten seconds later, he was gone behind the closed elevator door, returning to whatever the heck else he did for Richard Monday.

  ‘Probably dusting,’ Ian mused. ‘I wonder how long it takes him to clean everything in the house.’

  Well, maybe Anton did housekeeping too. Maybe not. Still, Ben figured either there were some major perks to his job, or Richard had some serious dirt on the guy to keep him around. Ben would rather take a job cleaning out sewers than working for this this clown in this house, day after day.

  ‘Would you, though?’

  Maybe.

  Richard moved just far enough to grab the first chair from the side of the cart. Then he unfolded it, placed it on the floor in front of the round table, and sat. He didn’t say a word or look at anyone or gesture for his apparent dinner guests to join him. The man just stared at the table, looking like someone had flipped on his kill switch. Because man, the guy would have made a fantastic lifelike robot. Without the lifelike part.

  “So let’s get to it,” Rufus said. He followed Richard’s lead by lifting his own chair and sitting in it beside their host. Anita, still grinning, blinked for a while before doing the same. She sat on the other side of Richard now, leaving enough space for their four clueless guests to sit cozily next to each other so they could all enjoy a nice homecooked meal and some pleasant conversation.

  Yeah, right.

  “Come on,” Rufus said, grinning up at them as he leaned back against the crappy metal chair. “I know it’s a lot. Promise we’re not gonna bitecha.” Then he winked at April, who turned immediately to look at Ben with wide eyes.

  Ben had to force himself not to read into that wink as anything more than this short man with a deep voice trying to lighten the mood. There had been pretty much zero lightness since they stepped into Richard’s home and even less since they’d entered his underground lab with who knew how many secret entrances. And Rufus seemed like the only person here who either wasn’t pretending to be something else or didn’t act like a budding psychopath who probably belonged in the nineteenth century instead of now.

  “Yeah, I could eat.” Chase finally left his little area by the wall to head for the table. He grabbed a chair and set it on the other side of the cart, which was now between him and Richard.

  That seemed to break the spell of reluctance, and Ben didn’t really want to harsh on all the good vibes going around by saying he really didn’t feel like eating and definitely didn’t feel comfortable enough to enjoy this little sit-down the way these people thought he would. When he met April’s gaze again, she jerked her shoulders up in a tiny shrug. She might as well have just said, ‘Why not?’

  Okay, fine.

  Ben grabbed two more chairs from the service cart, opened them both, and stepped back for April to choose. She sat in the one next to Rufus, whose previous wink at her made Ben really wish she hadn’t. But whatever. So he took the other chair next to her, leaving just one open space between him and Chase and one chair left hanging from the back of the cart.

  Peter didn’t move.

  “Mr. Cameron?” Richard slowly pulled himself away from the silver platter and lifted his head to stare at the last man standing. Literally.

  “What?” Peter said, his hands still jammed all the way down into his pockets.

  “Pull up a chair,” Rufus added with a nod. Yes, it was the most normal, friendly offer any of them had gotten so far, but apparently, it wasn’t enough.

  Peter took one hand out of his jacket pocket and puffed on his inhaler, then he shook his head. “No. I’m good.”

  Crap.

  ‘Meh. He’ll get over it.’

  Ben wasn’t so sure. Yeah, he’d pissed Peter off plenty of times since they were kids, especially when he started seeing Ian in his dreams and had to tell Peter that demons and spirits and creepy houses were a part of their lives again. But not saying anything about Ian sharing his body—waiting until Peter had to hear about it the way he just had—definitely crossed the line. Ben had known that—since the minute he’d woken up in the hospital, with Peter right there, after they banished the Guardian—and still decided not to bring it up. Seriously bad choice.

  “Very well.” Richard leaned forward and reached out to remove the lid over the silver platter. A wave of steam burst out from under it, water dripping from the lid when the man set it on the cloth beside the platter.

  Ben had no idea what to expect from a man who hired a personal cook-butler-doorman, but it probably wasn’t this. It looked like Anton had just whipped them up a dish of his grandma’s lasagna.

  Richard then lifted the cloth hanging over the cart and produced plates, silverware, and a freakin’ spatula. The man dished up the food like he was performing brain surgery instead, then passed out all their plates before sitting again and digging right in. After a few bites, he mumbled, “Eat first. We can discuss all the important information afterward.”

  Ben glanced down at the food and the fork and wondered if eating this lasagna was about to become a matter of life and death for him.

  ‘You seriously need to lighten up,’ Ian told him. ‘It makes you miss all the opportunities right here in front of us.’

  What opportunities? Ben frowned at his plate, which was pretty much all he could let himself do without another exploding outburst of green-light rage. He’d probably ruin everyone’s dinner. You mean like the opportunity to basically be held here against our will by a couple nutjobs who know way too much?

  ‘Like eating that lasagna.’ A little whine rose in Ben’s mind, and he almost swiped the plate right off the table. ‘I haven’t tasted food in forever, Ben. Can I just—’

  Nope. Did Ian seriously think this was the right time to ask for a pass at taking the controls of Ben’s body? For a bite of lasagna? They’d only been doing this co-habitation thing for maybe three months, and the guy hadn’t once said a thing about food.

  ‘It’s just…’ Ian made a sound like clearing his throat, which was super weird when he didn’t have a throat. ‘I can almost smell it.’

  Good.

  7

  Apparently, Richard Monday didn’t think providing his guests with anything to drink was particularly important. The man didn’t even once mention it or look like he would have appreciated a glass of water to wash down all the pasta and sauce he’d shoveled into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

  That just made Ben ridiculously thirsty, and the fact that he’d only managed to put down
one bite of their meal—so oddly hospitable, given the circumstances—only made that worse. He noticed that Chase, though, had won the silver medal for stuffing his face the fastest. Anita ate like they were sitting in a Michelin-Star restaurant, and Rufus worked at his food slowly, wearing a perpetual smile. Like this was all just one big joke, and they were getting really close to the punchline. At this point, Ben really hoped that was the case. It meant he could force a laugh, shake his head, and walk out of here without any major consequences. Except, of course, that now everyone knew about Ian.

  April had touched about as much of that lasagna as he had, and even twenty minutes later, Peter still stood a couple yards from the table. The guy hadn’t said a thing, hadn’t moved at all, and Ben started to wonder if his friend was now just catatonic or so buried in his anger that the rest of him had just turned off. Ben couldn’t have stood there like that for this long.

  Finally, when all the clinking of silverware and the chewing and the awkward toleration seemed to come to an end, so did the infuriating silence. Richard Monday licked his lips, set his plate on top of the service tray, and laced his fingers together again before placing his folded hands on the table. Still no smile. “Now, what else do you think is so important for us to discuss?”

  Seriously? The guy made it sound like the mother of all accusations, like all this was just a giant waste of his time, like Ben had begged for an invitation to be here and now had to prove himself worthy of the opportunity. All he could do for a minute was stare at the guy, imagining how much of a mess he could make by flipping over the whole table and sending everyone else’s uneaten lasagna and red-smeared plates all over the man who rivaled even Chase’s obnoxiousness.