The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(45)
Ian stood and approached the constable with his hands held open before him. “A bit of harmless fun, is all. Wanted to eat a meal without having to share with the rats.”
The officer looked left and right, then signaled him forward with his walking stick. With a gloved hand he removed a leather wallet from his breast pocket, displaying identification that bore the official insignia of the Witches’ Constabulary. It was accompanied by a grainy black-and-white photo of himself without his mustache.
“Constable James Bottomfield,” Ian read out loud. “A pleasure.”
“What’s next, a parade of pixies down the queen’s high street?” Bottomfield flipped the ID closed and returned it to his pocket, then gave Ian a sniff as though checking to see if he was drunk. “You ought to know better than to perform a spell on a city street. Your rats have marched straight past the tower, down the embankment, and on to the public square. Made three circles around the monument, then ran like their tails were on fire.” He twitched his mustache at Ian. “That’ll make the papers, it will.”
Ian shrugged. “The area seemed overdue for a good purge.”
“Right.” Bottomfield jerked his thumb toward the carriage. “Come on, you’ll need to take a ride with me to explain yourself to the chief inspector. And hurry up about it. We don’t want anyone seeing him,” he said, pointing up at Hob, who clung to the top of the lamppost.
Ian waved at Hob to get out of sight, then stepped into the cab. The constable jumped in beside him and tapped the roof three times with his walking stick, and the carriage took off. It was a comfortable cab, lined with velvet and leather and smelling of boot polish. Elegant enough, considering the seat was most often occupied by those who defied the laws of the three kingdoms.
Half a mile later it was clear Bottomfield was taking him back to the city center. The carriage driver veered them into the path of one of the city’s busiest commercial thoroughfares, where they joined the throng of foot and wagon traffic. There, a dismal bank of clouds sank over the tops of the buildings, smothering the street in gray fog and the threat of rain. Their carriage, one of a hundred black coaches jockeying for space on the grim thoroughfare, pulled to the left and stopped astride a statue of a dragon that had been planted atop a plinth in the middle of the road. The officer hopped out on the left in front of a black door. Above it was a plaster relief of a lion, a dragon, and a unicorn standing over what, to most mortals, might appear as swords but to the witch’s eye were actually crossed wands symbolic of the Constabulary. Bottomfield advised Ian to follow him inside without incident as he stamped his walking stick on the pavement. Not being a fool, Ian complied as the coachman, amid calls for the daft bastard to get off the road by the other carriage drivers around him, drove away.
Inside, the constable led Ian down a short corridor lit by candles suspended in a wrought-iron chandelier. He noted the beige paint on the walls was as clean as freshly churned butter and the wooden wainscoting polished to a rich mahogany gleam. He almost felt ashamed when the nails on the soles of his tackety boots broadcast his every step on the white marble floor underfoot.
“This way,” Bottomfield said as his smooth leather soles made barely a sound on the polished floor. Once they reached the end of the hall, the constable escorted Ian up a set of stairs to where a burly desk sergeant, dressed in a similar long black coat and silk top hat, stood behind a massive wooden desk. Its corners were embellished with rowan, ivy, and oak leaves carved into a winding trellis pattern.
Ian nodded and said, “Afternoon,” to the sergeant, who merely looked at him over the top of his tea mug and shook his head in disgust.
The constable directed Ian up the next flight of stairs to where a corner office hummed with activity. “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a chair beside a fern where a great arched window embellished with black mullions in a spiderweb pattern overlooked the busy street below. “The CI will want to have a word soon.”
Ian unbuttoned his jacket and sat, hoping he hadn’t pushed his luck too far by deliberately breaking the law to gain entry. But the Constabulary wasn’t like the mortal police force, with station houses situated conveniently around the city. The Constabulary had a single central command center that never seemed to stay in the same place for very long. Last time he’d been in the city on a case, he’d had to navigate the underground vaults below the city’s namesake bridge to get to their headquarters. Tucked away beneath the southern abutment, he thought the secret tunnels were an ideal location until the Constabulary suddenly picked up stakes and moved again. The rumors blamed poor ventilation for the relocation after a mere ten months, but Ian was able to later suss out the truth about too many ghosts interfering in the hallways for anyone to get their work done. Even when one knows apparitions are present, the heart shows a tendency to fright in dark, claustrophobic spaces.
“Cameron!”
His name had been spoken as if it were about to be snapped in two. The source of the threat came from a woman wearing a long white jacket over a white skirt and carrying a file folder. He knew nothing of women’s fashions, but the lace bodice of her blouse was spellbinding for the way it climbed up her neck in a delicate pattern that eerily matched the mullions on the windows. The silver buttons on the sleeves, each slightly different from the next, were a nice touch to indicate her rank.
“Chief Inspector Singh,” he said, standing. “Good to see you again.”