Lord Loss (The Demonata 1)

“Are you meeting Meera?”

“Maybe, maybe not. With the unfathomable Meera Flame, who knows?”

“What's the sudden great attraction about drinking in the Vale?” I ask.

“A pretty new barmaid,” he laughs.

“What's her name?”

A pause. Then, quickly, “Lucy.”

“Getting anywhere with her?”

“She's slowly warming to my charms,” he chuckles. “I'll give it another few nights. If she hasn't bitten by then, I'll cut my losses, maybe take you and Bill-E out to see a movie.”

He makes it sound very casual, but I know what he's really doing — giving himself an excuse to stay out after dark for the next few nights, until the full moon has come and passed.

Dervish leaves at 9:48 precisely. He sticks his head in my room as he's going and laughingly tells me not to wait up. I smile weakly in reply and say nothing about the fact that he hasn't changed his clothes, slipped on a nice pair of shoes, combed his hair, or sprayed under his arms with deodorant — all the things he would have done if he'd truly been going out cruising.

My uncle has a lot to learn about the art of espionage!

At the cellar door. Hesitant. I'd rather do this by daylight. Going down this late at night, not knowing how long Dervish will be away or when to expect him back, is far from ideal. I consider waiting until morning, when he goes for his daily jog and I have a guaranteed three-quarters of an hour to play with.

But I've had almost no sleep these last two nights. I'm exhausted. I might snore through my alarm in the morning and wake late, the opportunity missed. I don't dare wait.

Deep breath. Tight grip on my axe. Descent.

The wall on either side of the rack is solid, but when I remove one of the bottles, reach in, and rap on the “bricks” behind, there's a dull echo. Grunting, I grab hold of the edge of the rack and pull.

It doesn't budge.

I exert more pressure — same result. Try the other side — no go.

Stepping back. Analyzing the problem. Look closer at the wooden rack. There's a thin divide down the middle. I grab sections of the rack on either side of the divide and try prying them apart. They give slightly — a fraction of an inch — then hold firm.

Brute force isn't the answer. I'm convinced the divide is the key. I just have to figure out how to use it.

Studying the rack. My fingers creep to the top of one of the bottles. Idly twirl it left and right while my brain's ticking over.

I'm taking a step to the left, to check the sides of the rack again, when I stop and gaze down at my fingers. I half-pull the bottle out, then push it back in. Smiling, I grab, twist and pull the bottle above, then the one beside it. All are loose, but I'm sure, if I go through every bottle on the rack, I'll find one that isn't.

Methodical. Start from the bottom le

ft, even though I suspect the device will be situated higher, towards the middle. Checking each bottle in turn, twisting it, tugging it out, placing it back in its original position. I'm leaving fingerprints all over the place — should have worn gloves — but I'll worry about that later.

All the way across to the right. Up a row. Then all the way across to the left. Up and across. Up and across. Up and …

Getting higher. Minutes ticking away. I quicken my pace, anxious to make progress. Pull too hard on one bottle. It comes flying out and drops to the floor. I collapse after it and catch it just before it hits and smashes into a hundred pieces. Place it back on the rack with shaking fingers. Work at a steady, cautious pace after that.

Past the midway mark. Four rows from the top, on the right. My hopes fading. Trying to think of some other way to part the racks. Half-tempted to take my axe to the wood and chop through. I know that's crazy, but I'm so wound up, I might just —

Seventh bottle from the right. I twist but it doesn't move. Everything stops. My breath catches. Step up close to the bottle and examine it. No different from any of the others, except it's jammed tight into place. I give it a harder shake, to make sure it isn't simply stuck.

No movement at all.

I try pulling the bottle out — it doesn't give.

Studying it again, frowning. My eyes focus on the cork. I grin. Put the tip of my right index finger to the face of the cork. Push gently.