It was a constant source of amusement to everyone around them that James Lester had a dæmon whose name rhymed with his. Hester and Lester. Hilarious. He would never have it any other way, though. They would never admit it aloud, but she was the one who came up with all the good ideas. Most of what he had he couldn't have ever achieved without the clever machinations of his dæmon.
They had been born into the aristocracy, there was no denying that. His parents names were still spoken with a note of reverence even though they had both retired years ago. His mother, Viola Lester, was an economical genius and worked analysing the financial markets, managing billions of pounds in private hedge funds; he believed sometimes that she and that ridiculous man-child Connor Temple would have gotten on like a house on fire. His father, however, was a chemist and co-owned Angel Pharmaceuticals with his younger brother, Lester's uncle.
Even as a child, Hester never took the form of any sort of dog. Ever. Though it was more of a wives' tale than fact, dogs tended to be the dæmons of the lower, working class. An old prejudice, maybe, but one that didn't die easily, considering how often it proved to be true. Two of the trademarks of the canine species were obedience and serving their masters without question, not something befitting the child of two of London's wealthiest people. Beside, he never liked dogs very much, and neither had she. They simply were not appealing animals.
Rather, she preferred the shape of either a cat or a bird, her favourites being either a snowy owl or a lynx. If she was in a particularly benevolent mood, she might change to a white fox for a time, but that was still too close to a dog for her liking and never stayed that way long. Lizards weren't too likeable either. Snakes were just downright eerie. In his mind, if didn't have legs yet could still move, it was unnatural, and what was a lizard if not a snake with legs? So it was always birds or cats for Hester, and he was just dandy with that.
When he was thirteen, she settled in the form of a cat, an Egyptian Mau. She was sleek and silvery-grey, with small black marks dappling her pelt, her eyes the same grey-green as his. Sometimes he felt like he could be a super villain in an old Bond film, sitting in an office with Hester in his lap, stroking her with one hand whilst smoking a cigar with the other. Well, not actually. Smoking was a disgusting habit. But the thought was amusing. The rest of his school career afterwards was normal, as it was. He passed with flying colours, as was expected of him. He lacked his mother's keen intellect with mathematics and definitely his father's uncanny gift in chemistry. What he did have, though, was his own innate skill in the finicky maneouvering of politics. Once he'd completed his college degree (2:1 from Oxford, of course) he began his career in the Home Office.
It was rather fabulous. The complex web of inter-politics was endlessly fascinating, and it gave him a little thrill of pleasure when he knew he'd gotten one up on someone else. Hester was always there to keep him from getting too sure of himself, to always make sure he kept one eye open. She was the one to watch his back so nobody else could stab him in it. She murmured secrets in his ear, having taken them from the whispers of other dæmons, helping him, helping them, keep one step ahead. Lester might have been clever, but it was Hester that really made things happen for him.
And then the anomalies happened. And the big toothy dinosaur. And the smaller dinosaur that ruined one of his favourite suit jackets. And the civilians that somehow managed to stumble right into the middle of it. Oh, that lot, those bloody civilians made his blood pressure rise. And Cutter, dear God, Cutter made him contemplate ritual suicide, that...scruffy, stubborn, insufferable, argumentative git of a Professor, him and his bloody dæmon.
"Oh, now, James, play nice," Hester purred, slinking across the desk to perch on his knee, flicking her tail at him.
"Play nice? Play nice? Cutter's a madman!"
"Perhaps. But also useful. Without him, the others, they would clear this place like the French army. We do not have to like him, but we do need him."
He grumbled irately, even though he knew she was right. Dæmons were infinitely useful that way. They had a detached point of view considering the rest of the world, evaluating things and individuals as how they could potentially be useful or harmful to their human half. Lester could dislike Cutter all he wanted to, but her view of him would remain untainted. They did need him. Hart was attached to the man at the bloody hip, Temple followed him like a puppy, and Maitland had some peculiar faith in him, too. To cut ties with Cutter would be to cut ties with all of them, and though Lester was loathe to say it, Cutter was the best man for the job, him and his circus act. "Fine," he snapped.
Hester purred softly, nuzzling her head against his palm. "That's what I thought."
"Oh, hush, you cheeky brat," he said, but he scratched behind her ears anyways.
He didn't know what he would ever do without his dæmon.