Borage

by Gill McKnight

  The elevators dinged and more staff began to drift in. Iraldine appeared with one of her team, a tall, willowy creature, much like her and equally aloof.

  “Good morning,” Astral said out of courtesy. Neither paid her any attention, which suited her just fine. She didn’t need pleasantries from the “in crowd.” Iraldine paused to flick through the mail and selected several envelopes.

  “This isn’t for this floor.” The package thumped onto Astral’s desk. She regarded it quizzically, making a point not to touch it. Touching it somehow made the problem hers and Iraldine’s message was clear. Astral was a lackey and her work less important than misdirected mail, and she had to fix this.

  The package was addressed for floor five. Ping had simply made a mistake. It wasn’t a big deal except for Iraldine wanting to flex muscle. Astral sighed, refusing to be drawn in, and Iraldine strode away satisfied she made a mark.

  The simplest thing would be to take the package back to Ping, who could redistribute it as she saw fit. Astral went to the elevator, hit the button for reception and simultaneously realised two things. The illuminated number panel overhead and the polished chrome call buttons by the door did not match up. On the call panel, there was no number nine. Instead, there was a small key slot. Number nine was an off-limits floor, but one that Abby Black had access to. The doors opened at reception and Astral stepped out, determined to ask Ping about the mystery floor.

  “Hi. This was in the stack you gave me.” She handed the package over.

  “Oh, sorry about that.” Ping frowned.

  “Nothing to worry about.” The foyer was still quiet. This was as good a time to ask as any. “I was wondering—I was in the elevator and I noticed the ninth floor is locked off. Why’s that?” she asked, as innocently as possible.

  Ping shrugged. “It’s the storage floor.”

  “Oh, like the servers and stuff?” How disappointing.

  “Nah. Mostly archives and crap. It’s a bigwig floor. Only Abby has the key for it. The servers are on the fifth. Oh, speak of the devil—Michael,” she called out to a guy coming in from the street, “can you take this for me?” She tapped the package Astral had just returned.

  “Sure.” He hefted the package from her hands and greeted Astral politely. “Good morning,” he said before he headed for the elevators.

  “Michael works on the fifth,” Ping explained, and took a hefty bite out of a chocolate bar. “Hey, I’m having a great day so far. I’ve not had to leave my desk once.” She chewed out the words.

  “Well, I need to get back to mine before Fergal arrives.”

  She laughed. “He’ll crawl in around ten thirty. In five years, the only day I’ve known him to be on time was the day you started. Abby would’ve ripped him a new one if he hadn’t been around to greet you onto his team. He knows not to rile her. We all do.”

  Astral laughed and bagged an empty elevator to begin her journey back to the thirteenth floor, thinking about Ping’s comment regarding Fergal’s tenure at Black and Blacker. Five years made him less likely to be a critter, which meant he was probably just a thief, though the thought didn’t cheer her any and she was still unsure what to do about him, since as a Cuckoo employee, she could hardly be a whistle-blower.

  Her attention strayed to the call buttons. Weird for a “bigwig” storage floor to be locked off, especially if it held only “archives and crap.” She traced her fingernail across the small key slot that replaced the number nine button, thinking that Abby’s bigwig key went into it. There was a spark, and a tingle ran along her finger. The elevator began to slow. Astral whipped her hand away. Her heart thumped. Magic. Oh, no. Projector magic, ricocheting around the county looking for the broken wand and if it couldn’t find that, the nearest Projector would do.

  The elevator door slid open at floor nine. It was exactly as before, dimly lit and very quiet. A corridor ran straight down from the elevators and at the far end of the corridor hung a Postmodernist print, an Umberto Boccioni reproduction. On either side of it, the corridor junctioned left and right, respectively. Both of those probably looped back towards the elevator.

  She stepped forward before she really thought about it. The elevator doors shut behind her and the car shot upwards. She started, then relaxed. What would a five-minute break to investigate be to her day? No one upstairs would miss her, and Fergal wasn’t in for ages. Plus, she was supposed to be spying anyway, so why not have a look? Just a quick snoop. She’d be back at her desk in five minutes, tops.

  Her gaze drifted back to the elevator, and something wasn’t quite right. It dawned on her that there was no call button on this side, either, only another key slot. How would she call the elevator back? She was trapped and she’d get caught. Panic scrabbled rat-like through her chest, but she forced herself to calm down. There had to be a stairwell because fire regulations demanded it. She would find the fire door and hoof it up to the thirteenth, reminding herself that her coven was depending on her, no matter what she thought about its current politics.

  There were still some decent witches in The Plague Tree family. She puffed out her cheeks, sucked in a fresh breath, and moved forward, convinced no one was present on the ninth floor because it was too hushed and too serene.

  Her hand hesitated over a doorknob. The door had an upper frosted-glass panel and beyond that lay only darkness. She turned the handle. Locked. Where was the residual Projector magic when she needed it? Why couldn’t she make this lock cooperate like the one in the elevator? Airy-nary magical comings and goings were most unhelpful.

  The next two doors were also locked and the rooms beyond lay in darkness. Astral wasn’t that bothered because this was obviously a vacant floor. Maybe it would fill up over time as more staff moved south. She decided to abandon her search and find the exit to her own floor, since this seemed like a waste of time.

  She passed the last door on her right and didn’t even try the handle, assuming it was locked, like the rest of them. She’d explored the mystery floor and was satisfied it was totally unmysterious.

  Moving softly past the last door, she was halted by a snuffling noise coming from the other side. Her heart hiccupped, then raced. It sounded as if an animal was sniffing the gap at the bottom of the door, trying to locate her scent. It reminded her of Lupin when he snuffled her pockets for treats. Except this was different. This sounded predatory. Threatening, even. Like wild boars, or hyenas, or…or maybe even critters? She was frozen outside the door, mind racing along with her heart.

  She knew, deep down that this was not a critter. Critters were not animals, and this was definitely an animal. It didn’t stop her scalp from itching in alarm. She could feel her hair struggling against the braid she’d plaited that morning. She stood stock-still, listening intently. The snuffling stopped, though she could still hear quiet huffs of animal breath. They both stood perfectly still on either side of the door, listening and waiting for the slightest twitch, like some weird game.

  Why was there an animal in a locked-up office on an empty floor? Was it a guard dog? If so, what was it guarding? And how could it guard anything if it was locked up? However, she was very glad it was. Imagine stepping off an elevator into the jaws of a guard dog. And a big, fierce one, too, judging by the huffing and puffing coming from under the door.

  Abby Black must know it was here. Was that why she was on this floor so early in the morning, giving it kibble, tickling its ears before heading off to work? Somehow, she doubted it.

  Along the corridor, the elevator hummed. Then it dinged. Astral didn’t need to look over her shoulder to confirm its imminent arrival. She took the longest stride possible and shot around the corner, ignoring the indignant huff from under the office door as she flew past. If it was a guard dog, it didn’t bark or growl, not even once. Rather, it sounded offended she had slipped away.

  The elevator doors slid open. Astral took a quick peek around the corner. Ping came onto the floor. Astral ducked back, worried at being seen on the bigwig fl
oor. She could hardly step out and dream up a story about a lift malfunction leaving her stranded on the wrong floor. Especially as she’d so recently enquired after that same floor. And yet, Ping had claimed nothing went on here, that no one but bigwigs had access, but here she was.

  Astral stayed pinned against the wall. She’d simply wait, and when the coast was clear, she’d head for the nearest stairwell. The Boccioni on the opposite wall offered her an inverted glass reflection of the corridor. Ping exited the elevator and pulled a leather lanyard from around her neck. It held a key and she used it to open the first door on the left. Ping had said only Abby Black had a key. Why had she lied?

  Ping hummed happily. She carried a hefty canvas sack, not unlike the one she’d seen under Fergal’s desk. What was that about? This was genuine detective work—exactly what she was here to do. Ping entered the office and the door swung shut behind her. There followed a clattering and rattling, then a muffled curse. Finally, she emerged with an empty sack, puffing with frustration. She hauled at the handle with both hands, giving a swift kick into the room to clear the way for the door to swing shut, and to Astral’s horror, she proceeded down the corridor directly towards her. A quick glance around told her what she already knew. There was nowhere to hide and the distance to the next corner was too great to duck out of sight in time. If Ping rounded this corner, Astral would be caught red-handed.

  Fortunately, Ping didn’t round the corner. She stopped before the last door, the one with all the snuffling going on behind it. She tested the handle and seemed satisfied it was locked. Once certain of that, she gently tapped the door with a knuckle.

  “Shucky?” she whispered tentatively. The door rattled violently with the force of a large weight flung against it. Ping stepped back. “Now go back to sleep,” Ping continued in a quiet, nervous tone. “There’s a good boy.”

  She turned away and headed back to the elevator. Astral watched her in the glass. The key on the lanyard fit into the key slot beside the elevator. The doors slid open, Ping stepped in, and the elevator descended.

  Astral let out a long, low sigh that was answered by a long, low growl from “Shucky”—whatever he was. The growl was menacing enough to liquefy her stomach and its contents. It was time to get off this floor. She’d have plenty of fodder to tell Dulcie and Keeva later.

  *

  I smell witch.

  The incoming message made Abby hesitate—enough for the ink in her Visconti fountain pen to blot the dot of the “i” in “terminated.” She sat back and set the pen aside, disgruntled at the mess she’d made of the expensive vellum.

  “And?” She swung her chair around to look out the window, ignoring the view and concentrating on her familiar’s scratchy telepathy. She wanted to focus on this communication only.

  Tasty. At door.

  “Is she there now?” Abby asked, ignoring the tasty comment. It could mean anything with him.

  Gone. He had a sad tone. Shucky like.

  “Shucky also likes licking soap. Shucky’s taste is dubious at best.” She swung back to her desk.

  Witch smell of cookies.

  She suppressed a smile. “I’m going to London later. Try and be good until I get back.”

  Always good.

  Abby snorted and reached for her pen.

  *

  Astral followed the corridor to the expected stairwell behind a fire door and began a swift upward ascent. She was red-faced and out of breath by the time she reached the thirteenth floor, and silently she lamented how out of shape she was.

  The lament was a frequent one and she knew she’d do little about it. Keeva was always scolding her and Dulcie, another lazy-boned witch, to exercise more. At least Dulcie had her allotment to get her out and about in the fresh air. The nearest Astral got to the great outdoors was feeding her chickens.

  The fire door inched open quietly and she slunk onto the thirteenth floor, trying to look casual until a furtive glance brought her into direct eye contact with Abby Black. She stood several yards away in conversation with one of the Dividends team. Had she seen her step out of the stairwell door? Astral’s hair burst from its braid and began to wire around her ears in curls of guilt, incriminating her to anyone with eyes to see.

  Abby Black frowned, a fearsome thing from Astral’s point of view. Abby excused herself and began heading down the corridor towards her. Astral turned and legged it in the opposite direction as fast as she could manage in an awkward, guilt-laden gait.

  “Ms Projector.”

  Astral stiffened but kept on moving. Perhaps not the wisest decision, but her acute stress responders had long ago decided that flight always outranked fight, and her feet were currently in one hundred percent agreement. Her hair was frizzing so tightly it hurt.

  “Ms Projector,” Abby called again, a tinge of impatience evident in her tone.

  Astral managed one more step before Abby said, in a tone used to being obeyed, “Stop right there, Ms Projector.”

  “Me? You were calling me?” Astral looked at her in mock surprise, hand on chest, eyes wide, hair almost a full afro. Abby approached and took in Astral’s hair with a perplexed narrowing of her eyes.

  “Yes, I was,” she said curtly, still eyeing the hair that haloed Astral’s head. “Have you seen Mister Mor?” Judging that Fergal was now Mister Mor, Astral guessed he had somehow pissed off the boss. “He was meant to meet with me twenty minutes ago and now I’m running late.”

  Astral had no idea if Fergal was in or not. She hadn’t been at her own desk for at least half an hour and didn’t want to guess where he was. “Um. Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “I mean, I haven’t seen him. I was down at reception and then I went to the restroom, so I haven’t actually seen him arrive, which doesn’t mean he’s not here. Also, I went to the kitchen to leave out some baked goods,” she finished lamely. Of course, Abby already knew that because she’d been there at the time. She silently kicked herself. She’d basically admitted she’d come onto the floor at the same time as her boss but had dithered about so much that she had no idea if her work colleague was at his desk, which was directly opposite hers. Not a good look for an office temp.

  “I see. No need to cover for him, I’m used to his ways.” Abby’s lips thinned. A series of emotions flashed across her face, each one harder than the last. “Okay. Since you already seem to know about my movements today, you’re coming with me. I’ve a meeting in London and need to head for the station right now. Bring the notes you had yesterday, you can brief me on the way.”

  “Um. What?”

  “No time to waste.” Abby clicked her fingers. “Be at the front entrance in five minutes. I’ve a taxi waiting.”

  “What?” Astral spluttered again, to the back of Abby’s impeccably tailored suit as she stalked away.

  If she left the building, would the Cuckoo spell remain intact? She reached for the non-existent phone in her pocket, then remembered it was in her handbag hanging off the back of her chair. She trotted off to find it. Dulcie would know if she was still protected for the taxi ride to the station. There were select rules of radii within which a spell worked. Needless to say, she had flunked that class.

  Once Abby was on the train heading north, Astral could sag into a heap on the station platform, but for the short taxi journey there, her disguise might go pop at any minute—and Abby would be looking at a total stranger, wondering who the hell was in the cab with her.

  Astral hurried to her desk, patting down her hair. She gathered the requested folders and notes, and her handbag, and pulled her coat from the coatrack. On her way to the elevator, she dialled Dulcie’s shop and got the engaged tone. “Answer,” she muttered, to no avail. She hung up before voicemail came on, and tried Keeva next, but got the same result. She dumped the phone back in her handbag, panic rising as she raced towards an unknown fate. No time to text, either.

  She passed by the Reconciliations team area. Iraldine shot Astral a venomous look tha
t would have killed a small mammal at five hundred paces.

  And you can stuff it for a start. She had no time for all this jealousy nonsense. There was serious witching business to be done and she had to worry about the Cuckoo spell. She gave her the sweetest fake smile she could muster and shot past, glad to leave Iraldine’s surliness behind.

  Downstairs, Abby and a taxi waited for her. As she slid into the backseat it occurred to her that no one, bar the delightful Iraldine, had seen her leave the building. So much for alibis. Still rattled after her ninth-floor adventures, her anxiety sky-rocketed and her brain went on double-time. What if her cover was blown and she was going right into a critter trap? What if she disappeared and was never heard from again? Who would look after the house? Who would look after Borage? Who would even want Borage?

  Chapter 8

  The train station was twenty minutes away, thirty with heavy traffic, so there wasn’t that much time for a last-minute prep talk. Astral sifted through the folders to stop her hands from shaking and tried to look calm, professional, and in some sort of control.

  “So, which one do you want to go over first?” she asked.

  Abby looked up from her phone and frowned at the interruption. “We can do that on the train,” she said brusquely, and went back to her screen.

  “Train?”

  “Yes. To London.” Now Astral got the full focus of her dark stare, and she looked at her as if she’d just said the silliest thing.

  “We’re actually going to London? That is, I’m actually going to London?” Astral cleared her throat, aware she sounded even sillier. “I thought I was only going as far as the station.”

  “There’s no time. I have an important meeting and Fergal is a no-show, and though I don’t expect you to accompany me into the actual meeting, I’ll need you to run through these documents with me on the journey up. We’ll have approximately forty-seven minutes. Should be sufficient.”