Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

‘Almost acceptable pace, Mr Linton,’ he said, sounding quite close to not disapproving and frozen. ‘Almost.’

‘Thank you so much for the compliment, Sir,’ I huffed, clutching my sides with a grimace.

‘Bring me that file from over there, will you?’

Luckily, the ‘file from over there’ was not a gargantuan monster with enough weight to break my back, but a rather slim file in a black folder. It wasn’t numbered like the other files, but said in bold white lettering: L.E. from L.L. Waste Disposal.

I walked over to get it and hand it to Mr Ambrose.

‘You seem no longer as distracted as the other day,’ came his voice from behind me.

‘Well, I have less dead weight to carry around,’ I answered, distractedly. I was still focused on the black file. Waste disposal? I didn’t know that belonged to the businesses Mr Ambrose was conducting. Strange. By now, I thought I had seen something of everything he did. ‘Do you remember the man I told you off the other day? The one who wanted to marry me. He’s gone. Poof. Vanished into thin air.’

‘Indeed.’

Seizing the file, Mr Ambrose flipped it open and placed a big, black-ink check mark at the very bottom. For a moment I thought I saw a gleam of triumph in his eyes, but surely I was mistaken. After all, what could be so satisfying about getting rid of garbage?

‘Well, I hope your performance won’t be affected like this again.’

‘Yes, Sir. Um… if you don’t mind me asking, Sir..?’ Taking back the file, I waved it in the air. ‘Are you expanding your business, Sir? I didn’t think you were in waste disposal. Are you branching out?’

‘No. This was a special case I had to take care of. Definitely a non-recurring venture.’ He fixed me with his dark eyes and sent a glare at me that was as cold and threatening as an army of banshees and hydras at the North Pole. ‘At least I hope so for your sake, Mr Linton.’

For my sake? What the dickens was that supposed to mean? What did I have to do with his waste disposal? Wait a moment… The initials on the file…!

Before I could let myself think too deeply about those initials, my thoughts were rudely interrupted.

Thump! Thump! THUMP! THUMP!

Heavy footsteps of a man running came up the hallway and intruded into the office. We both stared at the door, distracted. A moment later it flew open and Karim stood in the doorway, panting.

‘Mr Ambrose, Sahib!’ he exclaimed, the accent in his deep voice more distinct than usual from his excitement. ‘I have done it! He is ready to confess! Ready to confess it all!’

‘Simmons?’ One second Mr Ambrose sat behind his desk, the next he was on his feet, erect, ready to move. This time there was no mistaking it: there was triumph in his eyes.

‘Let’s go,’ he ordered and was already out the door. Karim turned and followed, wanting to close the door to the office behind him. I put my foot in between just fast enough.

‘Excuse me. You seem to have forgotten me,’ I said, sweetly.

The bearded mountain grumbled something in some foreign language - probably ‘I wish I could!’ in Urdu or Punjabi or some other Indian language. Then he marched after Mr Ambrose, who was already charging down the stairs. We could hear the harsh staccato of his shoes on the stone steps.

‘Wait up!’

Mr Stone looked up, surprised, as he saw Karim stomp past him. Then his surprise doubled when I flitted by, even faster than the large Indian. I got to the staircase just before Karim did and flashed him a charming smile. If his face hadn’t already been so dark, it would have turned red like a tomato. This was just oojah-cum-spiff! Finally some excitement!

If only that bloody man would stop!

‘Mr Ambrose! Wait!’

I ran down the stairs after him and, behind me, heard the Mohammedan muttering again. I caught the word ifrit mixed in with several expressions that, in spite of the foreign language, didn’t sound very complimentary.

Oh well. I suppose there are worse things than being seen as a 12-foot-tall demon with fiery wings.

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir! Wait, please!’

Did he wait? Did he slow? Well, let me put it this way: Are lions vegetarians? Probably not.

It took me forever to catch up with the basted man! He wasn’t running, but he seemed to have the ability to march with military speed, even down a staircase. I just caught sight of him as he stepped off the last landing and into the great hall, which was buzzing with people.