The Case of the Hidden Daemon

by Lucy Banks

  Her lips were soft, pressing against his with delicious intensity. Gradually, he relaxed into the moment, losing himself to the warmth of her body. He placed a hand on her hip, panicked that he was being too forward, then swiftly removed it.

  After a while, Anya retreated. He was relieved to see that she was smiling. “I think if I waited for you to kiss me, I would be waiting a long time,” she said with a wink.

  Kester massaged the back of his neck. He felt hideously embarrassed and, at the same time, rather pleased with himself. “I liked it,” he replied, then he felt like an idiot all over again.

  “So did I.”

  “Oh, really?”

  She giggled. “Kester, you are very funny. That is why I like you.”

  He beamed. “Thank you. I like you too.”

  She leant over, touching his arm. “I have to go to sleep now,” she said, looking up at the darkened windows behind her. “But I wanted to say thank you.”

  “What, for the tickets tonight?” he said. “That’s Mike you need to thank; it was his suggestion.”

  Anya shook her head. “Not just that. For rescuing me from The Thelemites. For looking out for me.”

  He scuffled his shoe on the pavement. “Any time.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Yes, good night.” Kester watched as she walked to her front door, remaining rooted in position even after the front door had closed quietly behind her.

  She kissed me! he thought and brushed his mouth tentatively with his finger. It might have been his imagination, but he could feel the residual heat where her lips had been. My goodness, someone actually gave me a proper kiss! She didn’t even look disgusted once it was over!

  With renewed energy, Kester spun around on his heel and bounced off down the road, suddenly feeling that life had got very much better indeed.

  Open Your Eyes—Billy Dagger

  Hold out your hand, little boy.

  Touch the great unknown, little boy.

  I confess, I spit Maria,

  I spurn your church,

  I prefer them, elites of truth.

  Step through the door, little boy.

  Open your eyes, little boy.

  I, male hematite,

  Will be your guide.

  Lend me your heart, your youth.

  Don’t let them shut the door.

  Don’t let them lie no more.

  Join them, elites of truth.

  Drive deceivers to the floor.

  Open your eyes.

  Chapter 4: The Hag O’ the Dribble

  The mood was predictably sombre in the wake of Billy Dagger’s death, made worse by the fact that it was a Monday morning. Mike’s depression radiated through the office like smog, with every sigh from his desk indicating a fresh wave of misery.

  To make matters worse, Serena’s mood was even more sour than usual, thanks to the incubus making a surprise return on Saturday night. According to her furious report, he had woken her at two in the morning by leaping out from behind her bed and affectionately rubbing her ear. The same had happened the night after, which explained her hollow eyes and irritated expression.

  “Dearie me, it’s like someone died in here,” Pamela exclaimed after two hours of working in relative silence. “Shall we have a sing-song to cheer ourselves up?”

  Mike shook his head solemnly. “It’d be sacrilegious. Can’t you tell I’m in mourning?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s in the mood,” Serena added. “How about we just get on with our work instead?”

  Kester looked up from his book—Spirit Intervention for Beginners. Miss Wellbeloved had lent it to him for his forthcoming studies at the SSFE, and his head was aching from trying to understand it. “Pamela, Mike’s very upset,” he reminded her, observing Mike’s dejected expression, partially obscured behind a sea of crackling wires and metal oddments.

  “I am,” Mike replied, cradling his head in his hands. “I cannot believe Billy Dagger is dead. And we saw him die. It’s awful.”

  “Presumably, if you sell the tickets, they’ll be worth a fortune though,” Serena said without looking up from her computer screen. “I checked on eBay; people are going mad for Billy Dagger memorabilia already.”

  Mike glared at her indignantly. “Don’t be so crass,” he hissed. “A legend has died, and you’re telling me to cash in on his death?”

  “Someone else is already selling their ticket on eBay, and it’s currently over £120,” she replied, giving Kester a grin.

  “Really?” Mike scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That’s pretty good, isn’t it?” He caught her eye and added, “Not that I’d consider it, of course. It’d just be wrong.”

  “This ticket has still got six days left on the auction. It’ll probably sell for far more than that.”

  Mike grunted but looked more cheerful regardless.

  Miss Wellbeloved emerged from the stockroom, pen tucked behind her ear, still peering at her notepad. “Right, that’s the spirit counting done,” she announced. “Kester, how are you getting on with Spirit Intervention for Beginners? Nearly finished it yet?”

  Kester massaged his brow and winced. “It’s a bit difficult to understand. If this is a book for beginners, I dread to think what the advanced copy’s like.”

  She laughed. “Well, it’s on your reading list and you’ve got to write that essay before you start the course, so I’d get cracking if I were you.”

  Kester groaned. He’d read the email yesterday detailing his pre-course assignment. Undertake research into the process of intervening meaningfully with spirits, it had stated, and write up your findings in a five-thousand-word essay with key points outlined in a PowerPoint presentation to share with your fellow students online. Any other topic, he would have been fine writing about. But spirit intervention? It wasn’t exactly something he could research in the library. Thankfully, the email had also included a few Swww websites for him to refer to, which he desperately hoped would prove useful.

  The morning trudged past uneventfully, only interrupted by his father sweeping into the office just after Kester had polished off his sandwiches. Easing off his jacket with a grandiose shrug of the shoulders, Ribero hurled it at the hook on the back of the door—missing, as usual. Miss Wellbeloved scooped it from the floor with a long-suffering sigh.

  “Everything alright, Julio?” she asked, smoothing her hair back into position.

  He nodded, then pointed to his office. “I need a smoke, yes? Give me ten minutes.” Without further explanation, he strode towards the door, flung it open, and disappeared into his inner sanctum.

  Kester glanced at Miss Wellbeloved, who bit her lip.

  “Is he okay?”

  She chewed her lip nervously. “Let’s hope so.”

  After half an hour had passed, Kester crept towards Ribero’s office door. He knocked tentatively. The low rumble in response was presumably an admission to enter, so he did.

  The usual cloud of smoke greeted him as he went in. His father sat in the midst of it all, as regal in his armchair as a king holding court over his subjects. Kester noticed straight away that the hand holding the cigarette was shaking—and badly.

  “Hello Dad,” he began and sat down on the swivel chair opposite his father.

  Ribero attempted a smile, then swallowed. “How can I help you, Kester?”

  Kester shuffled in his seat, examining the ruby-red geometric rug, the cluttered desk, the nicotine-stained ceiling. He remembered vividly the first time he’d entered the office—the day he’d found out that Ribero was his father. It had only been a few months, and it surprised Kester just how much he’d grown to care about him.

  “I wanted to check you were okay,” he said gently.

  Ribero sat in a strangely rigid, upright position, as though an iron rod had been forced up his
spine. Kester wondered if it was an attempt to control the tremors currently running through his body.

  Finally, Ribero nodded. “I have been better,” he admitted, glancing down at his hands. “Today is not so much a good day, I don’t think. It is the Parkinson.”

  “Parkinson’s,” Kester corrected. “Dad, if you weren’t feeling well, why did you come in? No-one would have minded if you’d stayed at home.” Because you don’t do much work these days anyway, he added silently, then immediately felt guilty for thinking it.

  His father frowned. “Staying at home would not be good,” he stated, before stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. A wisp of smoke plumed out in its wake, like a tiny spectre floating to the ceiling. “If you give into it, then it is worse, right?” He grimaced, rubbing the small of his back. “I just wish it didn’t make me feel so stiff. And it is making me slow. Like an old man. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Well, you are an old man,” Kester said with a grin, then wished he hadn’t.

  Ribero stabbed a finger in his direction. “Just you wait ’til you are old. It is no matter to laugh about, let me tell you.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Kester shifted uneasily in his seat, quailing under the force of his father’s glare. “Well, if there’s anything I can help with at all . . .”

  Ribero sighed. “Get us some new business, perhaps? That is what we need. Though I do have some good news. I had an email from that government man, you know, the one with the silly name?”

  “Curtis Philpot?” Kester guessed. He’d met the man at Larry Higgins’s offices only a few weeks ago, though it felt like far longer.

  Ribero slapped his thigh. “Yes, Philpot. That is his name. Thank you, Kester. I forget these things sometimes.”

  “What did the email say?”

  “Ah, good things!” Ribero brightened. “He said we handled the Scottish fetch case very well. He commended you on your spirit-door opening skills. Without you, we couldn’t have done it, could we?”

  Kester blushed. “It was good teamwork, not just me.”

  Ribero waved a hand in his direction. “Ah, you are modest, like a little mouse. You need to find your roaring lion, Kester. Get your confidence, right?”

  Kester thought back to Saturday night, when Anya had kissed him. That certainly helped with my confidence, he thought as he bit back a smile. “I’m getting there,” he said. “I’m starting to study for the BA in Spirit Intervention and Business Studies, you know.”

  His father brightened. “That is good news. Then you will be ready to take over the agency in no time, right?”

  Kester flinched. “Well, I don’t know about that.” He glanced at the door. “Did you want me to bring you a coffee or something?”

  “You are a good boy.” His father smiled. “That would be nice. A cream cake would be good too.”

  “Oh, but that means I’ll have to go to the shop and—” He caught sight of Ribero’s expression and sighed. “Okay. I’ll go and get a cream cake. Anything else?”

  “Get one for yourself too, if you like. Ask Jennifer to take the money out of the petty cash, right?”

  Kester patted his stomach. “Can’t. I’m on a diet. I’ve lost quite a bit of weight, you know.”

  His father scrutinised his stomach, then nodded. “Yes, I can see it. Your gut is a little bit smaller. Now go and buy me cake.”

  Kester grinned as he closed the door quietly behind him. The others were silent, studiously tapping at their keyboards.

  He held up a hand. “I’ve got to go to the bakery. Does anyone else want a—”

  Serena suddenly shrieked and started flapping wildly at the air above her head. “No! Not again, seriously!”

  Kester folded his arms crossly. “I was only going to ask if you wanted a cake, as I was buying one for Dad. There’s no need to—”

  “Not the cake, stupid!” Serena glowered at the ceiling, then grimaced. “I don’t believe it. It’s back again.”

  “What’s the problem, love?” Pamela asked, craning her neck over the computer screen.

  “Yeah, you mad witch, what are you waffling on about?” Mike added as he leaned back, settling himself for a show.

  “It’s the sodding incubus, isn’t it!” Serena barked. “It just started stroking my hair.” She glowered at Mike, as though he was personally responsible.

  “He’s not an it, Serena,” Miss Wellbeloved interjected. “Show some respect.” She squinted at the air above Serena’s head. “I can’t see anything. Are you sure it wasn’t just a fly or something, buzzing around you?”

  Mike guffawed. “You’re not getting worked up over a tiny incubus, are you?”

  Serena levelled her gaze at him, delivering a look that would have made a lesser man wilt on the spot. “You try being woken up in the middle of the night by something nibbling at your ear,” she snapped, nails rapping dangerously at the desk.

  “Oh, the poor bastard,” Mike continued. He was clearly taking great delight in Serena’s discomfort. “Being in love with such a cold-hearted wench. It must be torture.”

  Serena shook her head. “I need help getting rid of him. Every time I reach for the water bottle, he wiggles away and hides himself.”

  “Get Luke down to help you!” Pamela beamed at the prospect. They’d all got to know Luke as Lara before finding out he was transitioning from female to male, and during the short time they’d worked together, they’d all become very fond of him and his ceaseless optimism. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for his boss, Larry Higgins, who they all agreed was an arrogant moron. Dimitri Strang, the grim-faced psychic for Higgins’s agency, wasn’t much better in Kester’s opinion, though Serena had seemed rather taken with him.

  “What, you think just because Luke has fancy equipment, he’ll have any better luck sorting the spirit out?” Serena retorted.

  “You need to lure the incubus out with your natural charms,” Mike replied as he winked in Kester’s direction. “Wear something pretty. Invite him to dinner. Then work your magic.”

  “I’m not inviting him to dinner, and don’t be such a childish idiot.” Serena glared at him with open dislike. “You love this, don’t you? This is one just big joke to you.”

  “Yep,” Mike confirmed cheerily. He swivelled back to his desk and scooped up his latest contraption, fiddling with the screws at the bottom. “I can’t deny it, Serena. I think it’s hilarious.”

  Kester cleared his throat. “None of you have answered my question,” he continued as he grabbed his satchel. “Do any of you want a cream cake, or is it just my father?”

  Pamela beamed. “If you’re buying, then I’m eating, Kester. Make mine a chocolate éclair, please, love.”

  “Just a carrot cake for me,” Miss Wellbeloved added.

  “I want the biggest, chocolatiest cake in the shop, please,” Mike declared, with a contemplative pat on the stomach. “And no holding back. I’m starving.”

  Kester rolled his eyes, feeling distinctly jealous. He was hungry too, but he didn’t dare cheat on his diet, not when he was doing so well. “Okay, fine,” he said, swinging his bag over his shoulder and trying not to look too begrudging. “I’ll be back in a few—”

  “Ah! Kester!” The call, though muffled by his father’s office door, was unmistakably urgent.

  He quickly raced back. “Dad? Was that you?” It sounded like he was shouting, he thought as he tugged at the handle. “Dad?”

  “Ah! Come quickly!”

  Kester glanced across at Miss Wellbeloved, who looked as concerned as he was. Without waiting for permission to enter, he threw open the door.

  “Dad?” At first, he thought Ribero was being sick. He was bent over double, head suspended between his legs, moaning in pain. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  “It is the cramp, yes? Cramp in my legs!”

  Kester bent
down and touched Ribero’s calf. “What, just here? A cramp?”

  “That is what I said, idiot boy!”

  Kester frowned. “Is this a symptom of Parkinson’s disease too?”

  “Ah, just massage my legs, please! Quickly, it is agony!”

  Kester rubbed his father’s legs. He could feel the tension of the muscles, spasming underneath his father’s immaculately pressed slacks. “Is that any better?” he asked eventually as he eased the pressure of his massaging.

  His father nodded. Breathing heavily, he straightened, eyebrows knotted with pain. “Perhaps I should not be here today,” he muttered as he shook out one leg, then the other. “My pills are at home. I need my pills.”

  “Then let’s get you home,” Kester said firmly. “We can manage here, it’s a quiet day anyway. You need to rest.”

  “I need my pills,” his father repeated, hands tremoring in his lap. He suddenly looked very old and very vulnerable. Kester wanted to hug him, to tell him that everything would be alright, but he wasn’t sure it would be appropriate.

  “Do you need someone to go and get the pills?” he asked finally, not sure how else he could help.

  Ribero shook his head mournfully. “There is no point. It will pass before you get back. Go on, you go. I will be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” His father paused and pressed his hands down urgently, pinning them against his thighs to stop them shaking.

  Kester left his father’s office, then he quickly relayed the situation to Miss Wellbeloved, who immediately called for a taxi to take Ribero home. Ten minutes later, Ribero left the office, so dejected he could scarcely take his eyes off the floor. Kester guided him down the stairs, then returned to the office, feeling utterly depressed. It was horrible to see his father like that—not just because he was in pain, but because he was obviously embarrassed by it.

  “We need to have a private word,” Miss Wellbeloved muttered as she glanced surreptitiously at the others. She nodded to Ribero’s vacant office.