Note: This chapter has been altered as of May 21, 2006.
I changed and shortened it…a bit easier on the eyes now. Converted Nigel into a dictionary entry. Ah, academia. I'm still having trouble figuring out how much is too much writing for one chapter. Please read and review if you have time...
Chapter 2: The Blue-Eyed Demon
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"Obviously I wasn't or you wouldn't have caught me…" she muttered darkly under her breath, still mortified that Nigel had managed to drag her thrashing and screaming from the broom closet. (Screaming being an gargantuan overstatement since (a) Victoria Reed never screamed, (b) it was more of a high-pitched mewl anyway and (c) it wasn't her fault the cockroach felt like getting chummy right when the blue-eyed demon, sometimes referred to as Nigel, opened the door!)
Having already desecrated her office, it had only taken him two minutes to storm through her satchel, ransack her closet, and pronounce the item stolen (without so much as a by your leave!) He could have asked her for goodness' sake and of course she would have...
…lied.
But he could have asked! A mere courtesy…the second anything goes missing, quick as a wink, he thinks Reed! We might have to rethink our friendship after this, she thought with a grumble, still searching her sleeve for the cockroach which had disturbingly evaporated after crawling up her arm. Judging the whereabouts of the scurrying insect to be somewhat more important than Nigel's persistent questions, she had spent the last hundred "are you mad/what the hell were you thinking/do you have any idea" queries in a dogged, half-muttering gag of silence while shaking out her favourite blend-with-the-crowd jacket (brown suede, faded, unassuming, and unfortunately, full of pockets…of which one had probably become the home of her new best mate, Cockroach.)
I mean, yes, she admitted cagily, taking a moment to drape her jacket daintily upon the ground before stomping ferociously along the sleeve several times. …the last time it was me… She sighed and began slamming the jacket against the wall, causing a cloud of dust to rise jadedly through the air. …and maybe even a smidgeon of times before that, but… HACHOO! She sneezed on the dust and began waving her hands about her face, trying simultaneously to clear the air and frown at the injustice of it all…
…eight out of ten times does not mean I'm always the culprit!
(As far as she knew, Nigel was unaware of the two times she'd filched from his own personal wine stock..."For research purposes only"…and such lovely bottles of Tokaji Aszu. Excellent vintage…quite expensive. Such a shame that they went missing, but they might have been ruined if she hadn't stolen…that is, to say…acquired them through unauthorized means…)
Finally satisfied that her coat was insect-free, Reed shrugged it back on and turned to face her chief adversary, employer, and near-on best-friend besides Cockroach…that is to say…Nigel, the blue-eyed demon!
…or as they say in the library…
"A Study of Mr. Nigel Courting as a Dictionary Entry", imagined solely by the analytical mind of Miss Victoria Reed as she glares heatedly at Nigel while he waits for her to answer his questions. (Full stop)
Nigel Courting (noun) – Pronunciation ('nai-jul kore-ting)Definition:
(1) Tall, red-haired, and renowned for his well-groomed charm, the irresistible Nigel Courting is a suave creature whose main accomplishment in life is a talent for coaxing females (and males) into swoons by removing his glasses. (Notation: Even Reed must admit…those airy blue eyes are exquisite…particularly while he chews on that damned pen of his.)
Exhibit A: Airy Blue Eyes (photograph stolen from side-cabinet in Nigel Courting's office)
(2) Not only is he genetically blessed with the face of a pouting angel (this occurs after puberty of course), Nigel has managed to screw half of London's elite into thinking a dilapidated auction house is a good investment. (Notation: No doubt he waits until after the act to mention the address as "#1 Crap Neighbourhood, Budapest, Hungary.")
Exhibit B: Pouting Angel Face (photograph stolen from Nigel Courting's wallet)
(3) Pyromaniac (Notation: Enough said.)
Exhibit C: Matches, Lighter, Flint (flaming equipment stolen from Nigel Courting's left pocket)
Etymology: (Middle English Nigel Courting, from Latin Blue Eyed Demon, from Slang Wanker)
Used in a Sentence: They'd known each other since childhood, and it was a wonder how Reed's obsessively neat footsteps had taken her along such a scruffy path, while Nigel Courting's incredibly rank (and unspeakably nerdy) beginnings had blossomed into a most fiery and enchanting dahlia (fit for her majesty's garden as long as her majesty's extremely attractive maid happens to be walking through it.)
As a final note…besides being gorgeous, lazy, and rich…Mr. Nigel Courting also has a slight temper problem. As seen in the following quote:
"What the hell were you thinking?"Reed snapped out of her reverie, aware suddenly that her mind had wandered again…
The blue-eyed demon was currently pacing through the room, waving his hands in the air, and kicking out at odd intervals in his effort to get rid of the furious energy that suggested he murder Reed…or perhaps that was just common sense talking. After all, why not kill her? She'd just slaughtered his career, sent every ounce of his credibility packing back to England, stolen from his auction house since the day she'd arrived, and dipped into his wine storage! (The little thief was still under the impression that his Tokaji Aszu collection was something he checked only once in five years.)
Reed grimaced slightly…she hadn't meant to hurt him, but there was no way they could auction the silver now that she was this close to finding out what happened to Ambrose. And as much as she hated to lie right after stealing from Nigel, there wasn't much choice in the matter. This had to be quick and efficient, and judging by how he loved to rampage, the yelling could go on all night and she really had to be getting home…not to mention, she'd have to eat soon. Her blood sugar was getting low…
She cleared her throat and began her speech. "Nigel, dear, you must understand…it was a complete accident."
CRASH!
Her favourite Michelangelo desk lamp was now lying in pieces on the floor.
Hmph…alright…option number two then. Reed straightened her shoulders, preparing herself to speak the truth…something that hardly ever happened these days. "And by 'accident', I meant to say I stole the piece on purpose, and I really am sorry…"
He flung a book at her, causing her to duck and grimace in horror as she realized that was her beloved copy of Latin Palaeography : Antiquity and the Middle Ages that had just hit the wall. Nigel, on the other hand, didn't pause to take note as he ripped another book from the shelf and flung it at her feet, moving to the desk to see what else he could destroy.
"You're sorry? Well thank God for that!" He yelled.
CRASH! went the tea-set.
"Except hang on a minute…" Nigel exclaimed, pausing to glare at her as his foot casually ground a tiny porcelain cup into dust. "…the last time I checked, Reed, sorry didn't quite cover the crowd of self-satisfied rich folk gnashing their teeth at me this morning after realizing the auction was postponed!" He wrenched her Old Masters calendar off the wall and began ripping it into tiny pieces with a vengeance. "Do you have any idea how long we've been waiting for this day!" Rip! "Oh wait…of course you do! You were there when we set the date!" He held up a large portion left over from the decimated wall-hanging… "And according to the back of Mona Lisa's teeth, you even wrote it on your bloody calendar!"
"But Nigel…"
He had his back to her now…muttering as he proceeded to rip Mona Lisa's head into even tinier pieces and fling them resentfully into the air. "Bloody kleptomaniac…should have known with your damn…"
"Nigel!"
"WHAT?" He roared back, his forehead set in an infuriated frown as he turned to face her, flinging the rest of Mona Lisa's head into the air. Breathing heavily, it appeared he was quite ready to start tearing into Reed's head now that he had finished with the calendar…definitely time to explain the situation in full.
"I found it." She whispered conspiratorially, her eyes lit with an alarming fervour…cheeks flushed as she tried to reign in her overwhelming excitement. (The fact that her office and most of her belongings lay in shambles was utterly inconsequential beside the year and a half search which had come to an end two days ago.) Nigel has to understand, she thought...
...but apparently he didn't.
(Upon hearing her declaration, he had instead burst out laughing in a most maniacal fashion.)
"You... You found it, Reed…come now, you don't say? I mean really…after the past year, I should hope so…" he scoffed, already aggravated beyond measure. "…because unless this month's lead can magically wipe the auction house with the integrity it once had, I don't give a flying shite if your mark happens to be tattooed on his forehead!"
"But it's not a lead…" she replied decisively, still caught up in her own excitement, her hands trying not to tremble as she rocked on her heels. "The mark, Nigel…I found the bloody mark."
Every ten minutes…Nigel grated to himself… Every time I catch her with silver up her sleeve, she's always found something. Always the same excuse. A new lead…a new trail…a new…he paused, finally noticing the words that had drifted through one ear and out the other only a moment ago…something about having found the… "What?" he murmured, his eyes suddenly dead serious...serious and unconsciously intrigued.
"The mark, Nigel…I could see the mark. It's on the silver…all of it. Every piece…"
"How can you have…" his forehead scrunched into embittered confusion. "…Reed, there is no mark. That's the point…" The blue-eyed demon crouched down to start gathering Mona Lisa's head so he could set fire to it in Reed's garbage pail. Damn the sprinklers. Damn Mona Lisa. And damn silver. He might as well set fire to the entire auction house while he was at it seeing how they were ruined. Out loud, Nigel continued, already having committed himself to doom. "Except for those sun-deprived historians over in Miskolc, there's no telling where the silver came from…" Stopping to search his pockets for a lighter, Nigel let out an incredulous scoff. "I mean really, who knows if they're even right? Any fool could have picked 'Kovacs' out of a hat…like asking who made the building and them answering 'builder'…you wouldn't happen to have a light, would you?"
Reed stalked over to confiscate her garbage pail from Nigel's miserable fingers. "No …" she crouched down to face him eye to eye. "…the anvil…two dots…and the line…it's actually on there…"
He pouted. "Alright, stop…right there. Not wanting to burst your bubble, but…how is it possible that every antique silver specialist in the country managed to miss your damn mark? Oh yes, I almost forgot…every specialist in the last four years since that boat blew up…"
"Because they…" she grinned abruptly, her face aglow with the excitement of a secret, her voice dropping a notch as she whispered the end of her sentence. "…don't have to worry about losing power half-way through an examination."
"I'm sorry?" he queried, not sure he'd heard right and feeling vaguely irritated that she could grin at a time like this. But what did it matter…he was burning the auction house tonight and killing himself. Let her have joy before she attended his funeral.
"I said…the power went out again two nights ago." Reed replied quietly, her fingers drifting to play with Mona Lisa in the garbage. "Except this time, I was smack dab in the middle of inspecting one of the Kovacs cups, so I figured, might as well continue since the lights were bound to come back in ten minutes or so."
"Speaking of which, Reed, you really ought to move out of that shack…" His nose was starting to scrunch woefully, and though the blue-eyed demon had settled down somewhat, she could tell he still very much wanted to burn something…best to keep his interest off the garbage pail (his eyes had started to stare glumly on the little pieces of paper she was twisting.)
"Just listen for a moment. Two nights ago, I was working on the cup and…" her words dropped off as she tried to comprehend herself what had happened. Something so odd she had repeated the test six times just to make sure she wasn't dreaming. "It was…it was completely dark and my fingers…they were against the silver. And Nigel, it was so incredibly smooth along the lines…like I was walking on these pathways and all of a sudden, my fingers…in the center of the cup, I could just…feel the mark."
"Excuuuse me?" Nigel's mouth had dropped skeptically, staring at her as if she'd lost her mind. "What do you mean you could just feel the mark? The cup's covered in designs…they all are. Every single piece in that damned collection is covered in lines…" And by Jove, he was going out with a bang tonight. He grabbed the garbage pail from her and stalked over to Reed's desk. Old girl used to smoke from what he remembered, and there had to be a lighter around here somewhere. "Besides…" he muttered "…how can you feel something that doesn't exist? I mean, for crap's sake, it's not there…" He began removing the drawers for the second time that evening, having changed his target now that it was obvious the Kovacs cup was nowhere in the building. "They checked it with sensors, photographs, models…"
"Nigel…I guarantee you, it's there. I just need another…" she halted in her sentence, taking a moment to deliberate on how generous her employer (and near-on best friend) was feeling at the moment. It was obvious he wanted to kill himself, which (judging by all the other times he'd stood at a window ledge threatening to throw himself off if she didn't come out to dinner with him) made him reckless as a chicken with its head cut off. Perhaps reckless enough to give her…
"…four days."
Laughing abruptly, Nigel dropped on his bum. "Four days? Have you completely lost your mind? You expect me to convince the government that not only was Monday a great day for auctioning, but hey, Wednesday's even better? Do I not look suicidal enough to you?"
"I know, but…" she started scheming again, muttering vaguely to herself and occasionally deigning to speak up for the sake of Nigel. "…look, it's Friday now…tomorrow I'm busy…Sunday I'll be documenting the cup. If the auction's on Monday, I won't have any time left for the fieldwork and you know I have to figure this one out, Nigel…definitely before some grumbling money-monger snaps it up on Monday…" She took a stab, punching him in the arm and hoping he might feel relaxed enough after falling on his bum to forget the common sense that dictated he kill her. "Come on, mate…you owe me…"
"Since when?" he countered in a voice of woe, tossing the red locks attractively, flipping on his back, and staring mournfully at the ceiling. "You're a bloody magpie, Reed…and you speak of owing. Better yet, why don't we calculate the number of times I've gotten you out of the frying pan, eh? Or perhaps...why don't I save myself the trouble, fire up the stove and just eat you? It'll be much easier committing suicide if I can choke on your bones...would you mind?"
"Oh shut-up…it was your idea for me to work here…" she murmured, her voice low. "…and I know what you think, Nigel, but he wasn't raving... for two minutes of that mess, Ambrose knew what he was talking about and I'll be damned if we let this go without knowing if what he said had anything to do with what happened that night. Especially with this mark turning up after God knows how long…"
Nigel made a nonsensical groan at the ceiling and stared grimly at the dark-haired woman standing above him. He could burn everything now and kill himself, but no doubt, Reed would need the copy machine after Monday. Then she'd find his ashes and poke at them with a stick, berating him for having burned down the auction house without letting her get proper documentation. He must be losing his mind…
"Alright" he sighed theatrically… "you have your four bloody days…"
Without further ado, Nigel got lazily to his feet and started dusting off his trousers. "I'll just have to take that damn public relations woman out to dinner or something…though if she needs a shag, I'm not doing it, alright? You're on your own then. Now how is it you're busy tomorrow?"
Ignoring his question for a moment, Reed dropped to her knees and began shoving her hand brusquely through the shell of her desk (all the drawers having been removed,) crawling forward until only her bottom half could be seen from behind, the rest of her making its way firmly to the back end where a portion of wood slid out, revealing a small gap in the furniture. Her voice, faintly muffled, came out from underneath the desk. "For all your talk of calculating, you haven't the foggiest idea what day it is… Third weekend of the month, darling. I have to drive up to Visegrád to check on Ambrose…" Her fingers dipped inside, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and miniature lighter. She crawled back out again and jumped to her feet, raising an amused eyebrow at Nigel who still had no idea how to really search an office.
His face contorted. "Bloody hell, you're not still using them, are you?" He flinched as Reed tossed the lighter at him, catching it at the last minute.
"If you're talking about siggs, no, I'm not…and if you're talking about Visegrád..." she sniffed, crumpling the pack of cigarettes with a sigh. "…well, it's not like I have a choice, do I? None of the other hospitals would take him after that insurance scandal. …I mean…yes, they're a bit dodgy…"
"A bit?" Nigel exclaimed, picking up the garbage pail Mona Lisa and offering it to Reed so she could add her crumpled siggs to the rest of his funeral pyre. "She was chewing a bone! No meat, Reed…just the bone…" Still unsatisfied with the size of his pyre, Nigel pointed at one of the self-help books he'd given her a year ago and looked to Reed for confirmation. The cover had already been ripped off, and what the hell, it was something to do with learning how to deal with fear of other people or some such nonsense. Reed nodded at his choice, before muttering "Alright, fine, so she's a little bit eccentric, but Urith knows what she's doing."
"Of course she does…" Nigel dropped the tome in the garbage and began searching for any other gifts he might have bestowed upon Reed in the past, still scoffing at the concept of Urith being a respectable doctor. "…besides lighting up in the middle of every workday, she's a regular saint. Except, I could have sworn that…what was it?" He snapped his fingers for a moment, shaking his head mockingly as if he couldn't quite remember something. Suddenly, yesss, he began to nod to himself. "Now I remember. But you're going to have to correct me if I'm wrong…was it you she put in a coma for six months? Or was that Ambrose? I can never remember which one of you…" His voice drifted off as he continued his search, not even caring to hear her answer.
Reed glared at his back (he was flipping through another book), still unwilling to admit that, in truth, she couldn't remember herself how she'd dropped into unconsciousness. However, when in doubt, lie! (She made a point of consistently fabricating the same tale whenever the question came up over how exactly two siblings ended up in a coma under the good doctor's care.)
Stalking over to the broom closet where her satchel still lay, she coolly pointed out "You know full-well Urith was standing across the room when it happened. Ambrose had started ranting again, and I know I shouldn't have stepped so close, but…he's my twin, alright? How was I supposed to know he'd push me like he did…" Reed secured her satchel calmly around her neck and right shoulder, noting that as usual, Nigel remained quiet, ignoring her words whenever she lied about what happened.
Of course, he knows it's not true…but what else does he want me to say? I saw Urith's eyes and now I can't remember anything?
Apparently just realizing she had finished her generic speech of un-truth, Nigel lazily looked up from his book and announced with a most serious expression on his face… "Did you know the ancients used to wash out children's mouths with cooking oil after they lied?" He dropped the tome (self-help and the art of karma-sutra…he'd given it to her as a hint six months ago) in his garbage pail.
Reed started to giggle. "Oh shut-up…"
"You shut-up…ruining my life with your damn search." Nigel ran his fingers wearily through his hair, his mind drifting unhappily to the thought of Monday. It would be a long weekend of phoning, faxing, and charming the pants off at least two members on the bidder's list…and Reed didn't have the faintest idea how difficult it would be. The publicity, the rescheduling, the stupid after-auction dinners…and no doubt he would have to shag that public relations woman.
But not till tomorrow...
Removing his hand from the now perfectly-disheveled hair on his head, Nigel abruptly shook his pail at her with a sly grin. "I'm off to burn my funeral pyre in the parking lot. Ring me if you find anything…or better yet, don't…my self-help guru thinks I need to spend time away from your constant stress and trauma." He tossed the lighter in the air, caught it again, and turned as he reached the doorway.
"And for crap's sake…" he frowned seriously. "…be careful."
And with that, the blue-eyed demon stalked heroically from the room, still intent on burning Mona Lisa's face into the concrete flat of the parking lot.
Reed, for her part, heaved a sigh of relief, keeping her eyes on the door as she waited for the tingle on her skin to die down and the sounds of Nigel to retreat from her floor. After another guarded moment of listening to complete silence, she flicked off the light-switch and crept over to the file cabinet, silently forcing the back open as she slid her pocket-knife between the cracks to knock open the third latch from the top. Darting her hand inside, she grabbed a sheaf of papers…fake identification, birth certificate, cash, a list of phone numbers…and closed the file-cabinet up again, her movements performed with precision…swiftly and quietly. Slinking over to the bookshelf, the researcher grabbed the three books she'd come for in the first place (before Nigel stormed her office) and made for the door, easily stepping over the broken shards of her office. She'd have to wait till after the weekend to clean up this mess…
…or at least until she'd figured out what the hell that mark had to do with Ambrose losing his mind two years ago.
She turned, locking the door behind her before jogging down the hallway towards the fire-escape. Checking outside the window and eyeing the streets, Reed grabbed the window latch, her thoughts now completely preoccupied with the next day's journey to the remote Farkas Hospice…and Urith...
Urith...
Such a strange woman…
More than strange. Even without the drugs, she's always so unruffled…relaxing in that chair as if she'd just woken from a nap or something, but then…is it even real? The lethargy… A faint thought began to tickle at the corner of Reed's consciousness. …it evaporates whenever she walks…almost as if she's…hunting…
…hunting like a…
She stopped, her hand frozen on the window latch, having spent the last two years getting so cozy with the rural hospice…so much so that she hadn't even bothered to think about the similarities between Urith and her workplace. How could I not have...her mind struggled in vain, until...
Wolf… she realized, her eyes widening…and then creasing into a vaguely cold-blooded snicker. Farkas means wolf.
And with that…
The dark-haired Reed shrugged indifferently in the moonlight
and slipped through her window out into the night.
No wonder I keep dreaming about…
...not wolves, she thought.