This particular adventure takes place in the middle of books 1 and 2. Nathaniel has summoned Bartimaeus only a few months after the Amulet of Samarkand "incident."

*edited 11/24/15

~0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o~

"Ooh, that's not a pretty sight," I said with a devilish grin. "What d'you think, Nat?"

The boy beside me gave no sign that he had heard. He just continued trudging on, coat flapping ridiculously in the wind.

I skipped a few paces ahead. "You going to say anything? What's the master's opinion on the carnage?"

He merely shook his head and kept walking, dark eyes distant.

"Sure, just ignore me, then. But, say . . . is it just me, or does that wall look like it's about to collapse?" I glanced sideways at him.

Now Nathaniel was looking at our destination as well, face whitening with anxiety. I felt a lick of satisfaction. This was the work of the people he was trying to stop, and it was one of the reasons why he had summoned me back from my home to aid him; it felt good to watch him stand there and feel the pressure, as my own essence prickled with pain. It was like a measure of revenge that I hadn't even had to carry out myself.

So, what was it that we were looking at with such horror? Ah, just a crumbling shop soon to collapse, which we were visiting on an observational job. Framed against the gray sky, it looked rather dystopian. And sad. Of course, that's what all buildings look like after several elemental spheres have hit them; there was still smoke leaking from the roof, and the whole block was deathly silent, as if all the life had been leeched from it.

After what seemed like an age, Nathaniel licked his lips and began walking slowly again.

I kicked a soggy newspaper off of my shoe with distaste. "You'd think the cleaner imps would have swept this all up by now."

"It's still a crime scene," Nathaniel replied absently. "They shouldn't touch anything that could be evidence."

I peered down at the watery print. "Scandal! Latest Gossip on Miss Ward . . . This doesn't really seem like investigation-worthy stuff . . . though, I wonder what the gossip is." I grinned at my master. "Think there are any naughty pictures?"

Nathaniel just scowled at me.

I wandered past in my usual form of Ptolemy and entered the ruins, casually incinerating a path through the winding strips of caution tape strung around the building. Behind me, Nathaniel had stopped to peer through a shattered window; he had a blood-red handkerchief pressed firmly against his nose and mouth. I suppose the delicate little flower didn't want to breath in any dust.

Me, I drank it in. I even imagined that I could smell the misery as well, and the fear that pervaded the air. ((It was like being transported back in time, to an age where swords and bows were used in gory battles, and towns were burned to the blackened earth. The good old days, in other words.))

Once inside, the walls and ceiling were charred black; the floor was also flooded with a grimy layer of oily water, and burnt objects littered the floor like dead bodies. I pushed experimentally on one wall. It wobbled dangerously.

This was the work of the Resistance, all right. The owners of this store had sold magicians' trinkets—things like chalk, lacquered bowls, rosemary stalks, and incense. You name it, and they had it. To the Resistance, the shop was fair game for assisting magicians. Plus, more evidence that the rebel group had blown up this shop was their notorious fondness for the use of elemental spheres. I'd only just finished sweeping/scrubbing/rebuilding another target five blocks away, with the occasional healthy snack of a podgy worker imp.

"It's even worse than the report said." Nathaniel appeared by my side. He seemed rather deflated.

I patted him sympathetically on the back. "When you get kicked off of the Ministry, I'll help you find a job as a chimney sweep. You're small enough, thin enough. You'd need to cut your ego back a little, though. It won't fit through the tight spaces."

"I'm the one who's egotistical?" With a contemptuous spin that was as elegant as a dancing hippo, Nathaniel marched out of the building, tripping on bits of rubble along the way. I shook my head and trailed after him.

Rain was beginning to sprinkle lightly when I hopped back outside. Nathaniel was stalking ahead, hands jammed in pockets, each footstep stabbing into paved ground. Looks like we were leaving.

I caught up to Nathaniel with a few swift steps. Down the block we went, passing various shops that neither of us paid any mind to. Drops of water beaded on our clothes and in our hair.

"I have a pretty good handle on this mission, you know," the boy said abruptly. "All I need to do is get the Resistance in the hands of the government."

A chuckle resounded through the rain. "I might be mistaken, O Master . . . but wasn't that your goal from the beginning?"

Nathaniel walked on without speaking, shoulders hunched. The Egyptian boy paused for a moment, eyebrows raised, and then padded after him. A raincoat materialized over his bare torso just as the sky began to thunder.

0000000000000000000000000000

By the time we got back to Nathaniel's apartment, we were soaking wet—or, rather, he was. About a fourth of the way there I had tired of the feeling of a soggy Ptolemy, changed into the form of a mouse, and snuggled into Nathaniel's coat pocket.

The mouse somersaulted acrobatically onto the cushy hall carpet. After a moment, a grizzled janitor took its place, complete with bucket and mop, and began to swab away the torrent of water Nathaniel was dripping onto his glossy wooden flooring. ((The flooring that yours truly had to wax every other week, along with several other humiliating assortments. Why the darn boy couldn't summon up an imp or two to do the household chores instead, I had no idea. But no, the boy had to use a fourth-level djinni to scrub his toilets instead.))

The janitor shook his gray-haired head. "A bit of rain, and then look at you. You're as wretched as a beetle-imp."

But Nathaniel was already striding down the hall, wringing out his wet hair, headed for his office.

I gave an impatient sigh. Bucket and mop disappeared, and I switched back into my preferable form of Ptolemy.

These things were happening more often, lately. We'd be having a conversation, if with a few snippy fights along the way, and then wham—he'd get all absentminded and wander off, like he'd forgotten what we'd been doing. I was a bit worried, and produced my theory to him in my usual gentle way—but no matter how many times I toppled his ink jar or set his Persian rug aflame, he wouldn't see my point. It was infuriating, to put it lightly. When not put lightly, I would say that I spent many moonlit nights plotting dastardly revenge.

It wasn't as infuriating, however, as I had been when I realized that I had been summoned once more, only perhaps a year after that Amulet incident. And when I had discovered by whom . . . let's just say that the scorch mark on Nathaniel's desk wasn't from a too-hot mug.

I headed down the hall and pressed my ear up against the wooden office door. There was the sound of a tapping pencil and ceaseless sighs. It looked like Nathaniel wasn't as carefree about this mission as he'd said—and no wonder. I'd had my own encounter with the Resistance and infamous Kitty.

The Egyptian boy wandered back down the corridor, lost in thought. No matter how behind Nathaniel was in tracking down the Resistance, no matter how lost or incompetent he was ((answer: quite)) Kitty and the rest of her group would be found eventually. And, perhaps, then I would be dismissed.

00000000000000000000

Nathaniel started for what seemed like the hundredth time on his report to the Prime Minister. Beside him, in his plastic garbage bin, sat a mound of crumpled-up sheets of paper, all with discarded ideas and scribbles.

Staring down at the blank sheet of paper, pen in hand, Nathaniel had no idea what to say. He tapped the pencil in his hand against his palm. The facts, he just needed to state the facts.

The door swung open and a tanned boy eased in along with it, his dark eyes fixed on Nathaniel. The boy studiously ignored the djinni and lowered the pen to the paper. Dear Mr. Devereaux...

"Are you getting along all right? Need any words of advice? Because, believe me, I'm full of them." Bartimaeus lounged casually against the wall. "For example, one time in Cairo, there was this egotistical little prick of a boy whose name was—"

"Bartimaeus."

"Er . . . no, actually. It was Menhotep."

"No. I meant that you, Bartimaeus, should go away. I'm quite busy."

"Really? Quite so?" Bartimaeus asked, gazing at the filled bin. A scrumpled paper ball wobbled at the top of the heap before plummeting to the floor. "What, in building the world's largest collection of paper balls?"

"I'm writing a letter! I need some space to think . . . Isn't there something else you can do?" He tucked his head back down again, and the pen began flying across the paper.

The djinni plopped onto the couch. "All right, all right. Just ignore the poor djinni. Goodness knows how bored and tired he is, being stuck on Earth for four months straight."

"What?" Nathaniel looked up blankly. The pen in his grip wobbled, before toppling against the ink jar, sending the black fluid spreading across his mahogany-wood desk. A brief curse, and the dark-haired boy was busily scrubbing against the stains and fluttering his paper in the air.

A loud sigh came from the form sprawled against the couch. "Clumsy, as always."

"I'm notclumsy."

"Oh?" A disbelieving chuckle resonated throughout the room. Bartimaeus reclined back on the couch; his dark eyes were fixated on the boy slumped against his desk.

"You're not leaving."

"Well, I'm not bothering you, am I? Just being nice and quiet over here in the corner. Nice and quiet, the way I've been for several months."

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. "Right. Nice and quiet."

The djinni stared at him with a hard, unwavering gaze. Nathaniel narrowed his own eyes. "What do you want?" he asked.

Bartimaeus picked at his nails. "And I thought you government types were supposed to be somewhat intelligent. Silly me."

The boy frowned. "I don't—oh. Oh, I see."

"So clever. Now, enlighten me," Bartimaeus said, cocking his head at an angle. "What is it I want?"

"You've been bothering me for ages on this. I've told you, I'll dismiss you as soon as I can."

"That's what you said months ago." Bartimaeus was now pointing a finger accusingly at Nathaniel's face. " Have some other forsaken djinni to do your work, why don't you?"

"But I need your help!" The drying ink on the paper stuck it fast to Nathaniel's fingers; he tore it away and threw it into the bin, gritting his teeth. This again. It was always like this. Why couldn't the demon be patient?

"What help?" Bartimaeus sniped. "What need have you of I? Do you want me to polish the woodwork? Scrub the toilets? Hire a housekeeper, then, you half-noodled twit!"

Nathaniel glared at the djinni. The Egyptian boy glowered right back, eyes flaring. For a few seconds, they had a silent standoff.

"Fine."

"Eh?"

"I'll dismiss you-"

"You will?" Bartimaeus was obviously taken aback. He beamed. Bird song rang out and the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle lightly pervaded the room. "Good. At last, you've come to your senses."

"—After we've got this Resistance stuff figured out. It's perfect, since it's true that you aren't doing enough . . . You found Kitty Jones before, and you can find her again, can't you?"

Silence. It was a deadly, unearthly silence.

Then, as fast as it had arrived, the sweet-smelling perfume disappeared. The bird song screeched to a halt. The stench of rotten eggs filled the air.

Bartimaeus' eyes burned dark as coals. "You know that's not what I meant."

The djinni seemed to grow taller—his shadow stretched and elongated in the darkness, covering the room in a fold of black. Nathaniel's words felt frozen in the back of the throat. Over by the window, the curtain flapped wildly, blowing in a nonexistent wind.

"Dismiss me." The words were soft, but they carried power and centuries of age in them. Within them rang the sound of weariness and anger and unspeakable strength.

Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak; nothing came out.

"Now." The Egyptian boy's face was menacing and shadowed; blue flames flickered between his fingertips.

Nathaniel, forcing past the blockage in his throat, spoke a word—a rush of wind swept from behind him and and sent the demon tumbling back onto the sofa.

The lights turned back on and the drapes grew still. The evil stench dissipated, leaving the room smelling dusty and dry.

Nathaniel stumbled over to his chair and put his head in his heads, breathing deeply. After a few quiet moments, he felt calm enough to speak. "Bartimaeus."

The Egyptian boy's back was facing him, head raised at a petulant angle.

"I'll let you go back to the Other Place right after we've got this Resistance business figured out, I swear," Nathaniel said.

Bartimaeus coughed and muttered something under his breath. He gestured rudely with one finger.

Nathaniel groaned. "You're the only djinni that I have enough history with to know I can work with," he explained. "That's the only reason why I'm keeping you here." He felt a surge of contempt. "It's not like I want a slave with a personality like yours."

A dismissive shrug.

"Bartimaeus—" He sought for a different option and then slumped. "—fine. Just this once, and I'll dismiss you! Are you even listening to me?"

"How could anyone block out that awful squeak of yours?" Bartimaeus complained at last. "I think you're finally going through puberty. Your voice is getting all high-pitched at times, oh so very macho. Like a mouse."

"Stop changing the subject."

"Or maybe a guinea pig. Those angry, reclusive types."

"BARTIMAEUS!"

"I fulfill the charge, and then you send me happily back to the Other Place," Bartimaeus said sourly. "What do you want me to do?"

00000000000000000000000000

" 'Find Kitty Jones and bring her to me,' " I grumbled to myself. "Just like that, hmm?"

I didn't often mutter and murmur to myself like this—I usually found it to be a trait of the spirits in the more, well . . . psychotic group.

However, I had an excuse. My charge. Nathaniel thought it was easy as buttering bread, eh? Well, he hadn't been the one to go out searching London and heaven above every week, fighting through rain or cold or swarms of stupid female pigeons hoping for a nuzzle. Kitty Jones was a hard one to catch—slippery, she was.

I should have known better than to complain to the boy. It was so like him to misunderstand—or perhaps not—and send me off on this thankless mission.

The pigeon wove through the sky. Below, markets teemed with racing children, pickpockets . . .

Pickpockets. Sounded familiar. Namely Resistance pickpockets.

My hopes weren't high, but still I drifted from the sky toward the busy Trafalgar Square, in which all of humanity seemed to be crammed. I landed lightly on a tree limb.

Half an hour passed uneventfully. Old ladies displayed their wares, grinning creakily at passerby and showing their brown, cracked teeth. Bustling tourists with wallets stuffed with bills left arm-filled with scammed plastic whalebones and other such assortments. A doughy-looking obese policeman patrolled the Square, one hand on his bludgeon. And then there were the occasional magicians, scattered throughout the busy square, noticeable to my seven-planed eyes by the traces of magic stuck to their swirling cloaks. More obvious clues were their cold-set eyes, firm jaws, the protruding gut and loose jowl, and the human-formed spirit only a few paces away.

At half an hour and two minutes, something occurred. Something different.

A mixed group of children and an adult emerged from an alleyway one-by-one, looking casual. They blended into the busy crowd in an instant, and the suddenly attentive pigeon had to crane its neck and hop to a higher branch to spot them once more.

They had spread out, the five of them. I had eyes looking out for only one.

I leaned forward, gripping the knobbed branch with sharp claws, and stared hard.

Kitty was standing beside the stall, now, along with a tall, lean boy with a mop of brown hair. They were conferring casually, eyes flicking ever so slightly toward the white-haired man on their left as they did. As I suspected, when the old man nodded his head to the stall-keeper, packed up his purchase, and left, the two of them followed.

The pigeon fluffed out its wings, cracked its neck from side to side, and took flight, swooping overhead.

They didn't get far.

At the very end of the Square, a limousine pulled up to the curb. The driver opened the door and ushered the man inside—seconds later, a mouse unseen by all except me hopped into the limousine right after the man, and the car drove off smoothly.

Unfortunately, in my observations of the old man, his shiny black limousine, and the unthreatening-but-definitely-threatening mouse, the two children had disappeared.

0000000000000000000000000000000

Right after the cursed djinni left, Nathaniel relaxed in his chair. It had been a close one.

Over time, the djinni had become more and more impatient, demanding more and more often to be dismissed; and each time, Nathaniel had said no.

Why couldn't the djinni leave him alone? He had other things to deal with—most of all, the Resistance. Kitty, Fred, and Stanley, and a few unnamed others all had to be tracked down and found. Of course, for him, Kitty was the most wanted. He remembered lying in the pouring rain, with her standing over him, and the contempt in her voice . . .

Nathaniel stared moodily at the carpet. The Ministry was getting impatient with him; he could tell from the restless, scornful looks on their faces during their meetings. At least he had his best djinni on the job—not that he'd ever tell Bartimaeus that.

The phone rang, startling Nathaniel out of his moody stupor. He self-consciously brushed back his hair and then picked up the phone.

"Nathaniel, assistant to the Head of Internal Affairs," he piped.

"Excellent," a voice said dryly. It had a rough edge to it, similar to the harsher baritones of the commoner accents.

Nathaniel relaxed slightly, shifting into his seat. "Who may this be?" he asked politely. Perhaps it was a mere commercial man, or a surveyor. He could stand to answer a few questions—he felt like talking right now.

"A person who's coming to pay you a call," the voice replied slyly. "Do you know who we are? Here's a hint—we've got some pretty sharp knives on our hands. And we can use them. Remember now?"

"Who is this? I—I demand to know!" Nathaniel said; his mouth was suddenly dry.

Soft chuckles emanated from the speaker. "You demand, you demand . . . Watch your back," the voice hissed, and then the line clicked off.

Nathaniel set the phone down beside him, shaken. He needed Bartimaeus. Now. If anyone came, he would have protection, just like how he had been protected in the attack before.

But he had sent Bartimaeus out. The djinni was not to report back until later, surely, when he had found the Resistance—and that would take time, too much time. He could draw a pentacle, perhaps, and summon back the djinni, but by then it might be over for him . . .

It was the only option. He could not ask his fellow Ministry members for help. It was likely that one of them had sent the message, and he could not trust any of them.

Time passed in a blur. Before he knew it, Nathaniel was standing in a chalked pentacle in the summoning room. Perhaps he was just overreacting . . .? But he had heard the threat, plain as day. His life was in danger.

The boy began to speak quickly.

Just as he did so, he heard the slight hiss of the soggy leaves on the walkway—the sound of many quick feet moving lightly over the mess.

He chanted on, trying to recall if, when he had stumbled inside just a few hours earlier, he had locked the front door . . .

He was reaching the end of the summons, and a wave of relief washed over him as he strained his hears. Perhaps there was no one there.

However, then Nathaniel heard soft footsteps stop outside of the door, and a hand land on the doorknob. He heard the creak of the sticky doorknob, and then the soft squeal as the front door, which was unlocked, was pushed open.

"Hello? Is anyone in here?" a soft voice cooed.

000000000000000000000000000000000

I was soaring over the cemetery, flying over fields and fields of the buried dead, when it started: an infernal tugging of my bowels, as if they were trying to escape my insides.

I was being summoned.

My beak clacked once in irritation. What did the kid want now?

The pigeon flew on determinedly, just to spite him; but before the tugging could get any worse, I relented and let myself shimmer out of the gray sky without a sound.

When the dizziness stopped, I sighed, stretched, and yawned dramatically, planning to show off 32 sets of brilliantly white, dentist-applauded teeth before remembering that I was a stark-gray pigeon with smoke-coagulated feathers.

The pigeon huffed in irritation and changed form, into Ptolemy, and then I yawned, showing off a set of 32 brilliantly white, dentist-applauded teeth—and stopped.

"Why, thank you, Nat," I said in false mortification, "but I already know how mighty I am. There's no need at all to bow to me."

Nathaniel was on his knees, bent over, but as I said this he snapped up sharpish and glared at me. "What took you so long?"

"Hey, I took as long as a normal summoning, bud," I said, putting hands on hips. "And speaking of which, why…?"

"There are people in the house. I think they wish me harm," Nathaniel replied queasily, standing up. "They said they're with the Resistance."

"Again?"

"Protect me, and get rid of them, Bartimaeus," Nathaniel cut in. "No, wait—don't. Restrain them, but don't kill them—we need them for questioning. Go."

I shrugged. "Don't matter to me none," I said, and stepped out of the pentacle, grabbed the boy, and flung him into a nearby closet. His upset complaints were swiftly stifled when I gave the closet doors a good kick.

"Stay in there, and don't come out," I said sharply.

I placed a Shield around the closet, ignored his muffled cries, and strode out of the room. It felt good to finally have a little action.

In the office of John Mandrake, the black-clad figure ((stupid, really, because it wasn't even dark yet, but there's stereotypes for you. Everyone's got to be a ninja these days, when they weren't really at all that great. Too many silver weapons for my liking, especially those cursed throwing stars)) paused, listened carefully. He had heard a slight rustle in the hall outside. The boy, most likely, trying to slip away out the door before notice.

Not under his watch.

The figure crept to the door, glanced around. Nothing. He moved slightly out of the doorway—

At which I came crashing down, releasing my sticky hold on the ceiling.

The poor man didn't see it coming at all. One moment he was looking around for my measly master, and the next moment I had knocked him to the ground and was sitting on him in all of my 200-pound froggy glory.

The intruder grunted; his face purpled as he raised a fist. I smacked the blow away with ease, throwing in a languid yawn for added affect, and then grabbed him around the throat with one webbed hand.

The man flinched back, drawing his head to the side. His eyes, which were the only part of his face I could see due to the baklava, were shiny with fear. I cocked my head to the side and smiled devilishly. His eyes withdrew into terrified slits, his breaths came out in fast pants, and he took a deep breath in to scream-

Pity it was all for nothing.

I hit him swiftly on the temple with my fist; the man slackened in my grip. The frog clambered off his chest and then hopped onto the ceiling with one bound.

As stealthily as a giant amphibian could, I went in search of the others.

They were in the summoning room.

I crept through the doorway, crabbing along the ceiling, thrilling with the hype of a hunt.

I dropped down soundlessly behind them—

Almost soundlessly, actually.

As I landed, my back right foot landed on a squeaky floorboard I'd completely forgotten about. A shrill cry escaped from the wood. The frog spat out a curse and leaped to the side just as a silver dagger pierced the back wall, cutting through the space where it had just landed.

The two black-clad figures regarded me, their eyes looking out from their baklavas.

The frog gave a small wave. Then it dove forwards into one of the intruders with all the force of a two-ton truck.

The human fell back with a startled gasp, ripping his dagger from his belt and slashing at me several times.

My essence shivered mightily and I darted away from him, narrowly missing a hit by another flying dagger. ((Though cheaply made, all of these daggers had the possibility of killing me if one hit a vital spot.))

I landed hard on the floor, rolled, and sprang back onto my sticky toes. The two intruders had regrouped, and were now eyeing me warily, their thrown knives scattered throughout the room.

I sat back on my heels, back to the closet where Nathaniel was hidden, and rested my chin on my fist. "You know," I said in a friendly tone, "Other times I would have applauded this attempt on my master's life, but unfortunately he has given me a direct order to stop you three. My apologies."

Now the black-clad attackers' eyes glimmered with amusement, and they darted a look at each other. I followed their movements closely. Something was up. Something I had said. What?

The frog was bewildered for a moment; then it tensed. It whirled around, bracing itself on its three-toed feet.

Four more attackers loomed behind, one of which was the one I had knocked out, which was evident from the wobbly way he stood and the dazed look in his eyes. I guess I hadn't hit him hard enough. Pity.

I gave them my best froggy smile. "Um…no hard feelings?"

Six pairs of hands rested on twelve daggers. The frog hunched its shoulders.

The daggers flew, their silver points gleaming, heading directly for me. My essence ached with the threatening cold fast approaching. Without thinking, using reflexes accumulated over the centuries, I shifted to a moth the size of a button, which darted through the air to land on a window drape. The daggers clattered harmlessly against the wall.

The attackers reacted quickly, spinning around, their hands flying back to their belted waists upon which many more gleaming daggers hung.

"Where'd the demon go?" one asked, a feminine voice now.

I couldn't help but feel affronted at the title of address, and then hunched down amongst the folds of drapes, even tucking my antennae in, while I clambered slowly up the heavy, rich-colored fabric. I must have been the stealthiest moth around.

"It's gone somewhere," another said uneasily. ((I could already tell that this one wasn't the brightest apple in the barrel. I mean, seriously? Talk about stating the obvious…)) He began picking up his knives. The others did the same.

As they were occupied, the moth drew itself up another few inches and wavered back and forth to get a better vantage point—it leaned back a little, licked antennae, and then raised a tiny leg.

An Inferno burst out, charring the creamy white wall in the outside hall. The six whirled around once more, hands on daggers.

I felt like I was back in the good old days, fighting uttuku. They were really dumb creatures—fell for anything. Not like I'm making a comparison here, or anything.

The moth dropped down unnoticed behind them, raised a leg again, and blasted them all with a gentle Squall. They all flew forward, hit the wall, and slowly slid down to slump on their knees before collapsing onto the ground.

I released the Shield on the closet. "Come on out, John."

My rumpled young master pushed himself out of the closet and brushed past to examine the intruders. By now I had them all propped up against the wall, their hands bound behind their backs by their black leather belts.

Nothing at all that eventful happened after that. Nathaniel hurried off to make a few quick phone calls, I rechecked the assassins' bound hands, and then five minutes later police arrived to hustle them away.

I waved a cheerful goodbye as the flashing squad cars zoomed off. Then I heaved the heavy wooden door round and locked it tight, and listened to the eerie silence.

Everything was extremely quiet, almost as if the house itself was holding its breath. I scuffed the floor to make a little sound; it was as loud as if a vase had crashed to the floor in the icy stillness, and I felt slightly disturbed, ill at ease.

"Mr. Mandrake," I called, wandering back down the hall and sliding past the large, oozing scorch mark. Where'd that idiotic master of mine go now?

I briefly fantasized of a hidden intruder lying in wait, making quick work of my master, and then myself, evaporating freely back to the Other Place. If only things worked themselves out so easily like that.

I found him in his office, standing amongst toppled cushions and scattered sheets of paper, looking slightly lost.

"Something looks different about this place."

Nathaniel bent down to pick up a few sheets of paper. "Very funny. Now help me clear this mess up."

I kicked a few cushions back onto the sofa and waded into the mess. Nathaniel made his way over to his desk, which had shoved a few ways across the room. The drawers with locks on them had been angrily knifed.

"I guess they get angry when they can't find what they want," I said. "Which would be you, and your important papers. I'm still waiting for a 'thank you', by the way."

Nathaniel didn't answer; he was leafing through his papers, eyes narrowed. At last, he glanced up for a second. "What did you say?"

I let out a huffy breath, blowing the black bangs away from my forehead. My bare feet shifted in dark soil, which, I realized, was spilling out from a toppled potted plant.

I straightened the plant, patting it on its glossy green leaves, and flicked my hand slightly to blow the spilled dirt out of the open window. "I guess you'll have to go ahead and rewrite your thousands of official documents that they took. Poor you."

Nathaniel looked up from the papers he held in his hand. "They didn't take anything, Bartimaeus."

"Are you sure?" I held out a hand at the mess. "There's like a hundred papers all around the room. How would you notice if one was missing?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "Let me rephrase. Nothing important was taken. The files and papers that are to be worried about are still in a cabinet, with my other magical items." As he said this, he fiddled with that key that was always hung around his neck. ((Something I had presumed to be his attempt at a bling-y fashion statement, or maybe a gift from some fantasizing lover about the "key to my heart." But, no, it was the key to his Ministry papers. How very like him.))

Now it was my turn to shrug. It was strange how much communication could be expressed in just one motion.

I picked up all the papers and tossed them neatly on Nathaniel's desk. Meanwhile, the dark-haired boy in mention was on the phone again, talking quietly, his eyebrows knit closely together in an adult expression that looked out-of-place on his youngish features. After all, the boy was only…what…twelve? Thirteen? I'd lost track.

As he spoke, I flopped onto the couch, nestled into the cushions, and absently counted the number of assassination attempts on my master.

The first one had been when we were leaving a coffee shop from a brief, casual meeting with the inept Julius Tallow, where Nathaniel was the one who did most of the debriefing. We had stepped outside, and out of nowhere a new type of Sphere, a Detonation kind, based on djinni magic, came whistling toward us. I reacted quickly, throwing up a Shield around us three and knocking Nathaniel to the ground, leaving Tallow's djinni to stand there still slightly bewildered. No one was hurt, Nathaniel and Tallow were brushed off and examined by paramedics, and life continued on as normal.

Then, maybe a month later, Nathaniel and I had been caught in a crossover alleyway by a few black-clad figures ((sound familiar?)). I'd knocked them aside, and swooped Nathaniel out of there in the form of a giant hawk.

Silence. There seemed to be a whole lot of this lately.

I broke off from my musing, looked down at my count of three, and then clasped my hands together.

"Well?" I asked Nathaniel. "What did…?"

"My attackers were interrogated. They were the same people as before," Nathaniel said, looking out of the window. "Commoners roused by the Resistance, and deciding to take action themselves."

"Well, good for them!" I said cheerfully, clapping my hands—and then rolled my eyes and stopped when Nathaniel shot me a look that could shear through solid rock.

"I don't understand! Commoners should be grateful to us. They should be glad for their government, their empire," Nathaniel said passionately, whirling away from the window to go traipsing back to his desk. "Without magicians, they would be nothing. Magicians have made London everything it is today."

"Well, London is pretty trashy. I wouldn't go bragging about that if I were you."

Another glower. I shut up, but really, what can you do? It was the truth, albeit one that was hard for the magicians to digest.

"Kitty is plenty independent," I said, leaning back into a more comfortable position and placing my arms leisurely behind my head. I darted a look up at the boy; he was looking slightly uncomfortable. "Why don't you ask her what she thinks?"

"Speaking of Kitty Jones," Nathaniel interrupted quickly, "I sent you out. I know it's early, but did you manage to find anything on the Resistance?"

I hesitated. "Well. Slightly."

"Which means…?"

"I found Kitty, and a few others."

"And?" His arms were crossed.

"And I lost them."

He didn't speak, didn't scowl, just stood there, sending me into a kerfuffle of words.

"Hey, um…Nath—Mandrake. Boy. It wasn't technically my fault; you summoned me back before I could find them. You know?"

Nathaniel turned his back to me, his hands gripping his desk in high agitation. This was getting good. And bad, depending on which way you looked at it. I just hoped it didn't end up with me in the Shriveling Fire.

"Hello?"

You could have heard a pin drop.

"Oh, okay, I'm being ignored. That's great. While I'm at it, why don't I just keep jabbering—"

Nathaniel sighed, a loud, frustrated sigh, and ran his hands through his hair. He whirled around to face me, arms rigid at his sides, and then lashed out to poke me hard in the chest.

"Do you even know how important this is to me? I need to find the Resistance. And thus you need to find the Resistance!"

I stood my ground and poked him harder back in the chest. "I would have found them again if you hadn't summoned me! Don't blame this on me, Mandrake."

His face was flushed. "I should have known you would have messed this up. When it's up to you, everything goes wrong. Just go away, won't you?"

I shot off of the sofa, kicked hard at fallen cushion, and then left the room, slamming the door loudly behind me.

The boy was getting on my nerves, always blaming everything on me, me, me. Why didn't he ever try going out into the rain, the cold, and the gusty winds? Why didn't he try to do anything for himself for once?

Because he was a magician, that's why, and magicians never do their own dirty work. Ptolemy, though…he was the only exception. And he didn't last long.

I needed some fresh air.

I crossed the hall into Nathaniel's cramped bedroom, and knocked the window open with a hard gust of wind. It fell off its hinges and toppled onto the black-cemented street below, where the glass shattered loudly and somewhere a woman screamed.

I plopped onto the bed, and stared up at the ceiling, feeling some relief as the cool air pervaded the stuffy room.

I shifted slightly on the cold sheets and felt a twinge in my essence as I moved, thumping in the painful ache that was always there on my visits to Earth, and for a moment I was reminded of Ptolemy, the way he always took care that I was never in great pain on what he liked to call my "voyages."

I held my brown-skinned fingers up to my eyes, traced over the fingernails lightly. It had been 2,000 years, and yet I still remembered him clearly.