095: Poor Man's Genie
Feb. 6th, 2006 08:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrAs ever, thank you to my betas <3 They have far more patience with me than I deserve ^_^
Chris buried his hands deeper into the pockets of his beat up brown leather jacket, and tried to pull his head as far into it as he possibly could, but even it and the heavy wool sweater underneath couldn’t keep out the biting chill of the snowy afternoon. Only two-thirty and already it looked as though it were six o’clock at night. He knocked on the door and stood huddled and shivering on the steps of a house just on the outskirts of town, wishing for his drafty office because at least the draft didn’t come with snow.
Hopefully this latest case would be a lucrative one. He would gladly help anyone who asked, but he wished occasionally somebody wealthy needed his assistance. Or at least someone wealthy and willing to share. Maybe this guy would be one of those.
The door opened slowly to reveal a figure that immediately dashed all his hopes. Thin, wrinkled, and rigid-looking despite the age that forced him to use a cane, he looked exactly like someone who resented spending money in any way, shape or form. Chris sensed the man wasn’t nearly so aged and frail as he appeared. Something in his posture and the cruel twist to his mouth, the hard and unflinching dark brown eyes. “What do you want, boy?”
“My name is Christian White. You requested my services?”
“You look a mite young to be playing detective.”
Chris narrowed his blue eyes, temper beginning to simmer. “I do not play at anything, Mr. Pollock. If you deem me inadequate then that is your loss. Good day to you, sir.” He turned to leave.
“Wait one moment, boy.”
“Detective or Chris will suffice,” Chris said icily. “Boy will not.”
“Do come in, Detective,” Pollock waved him inside and closed and locked the door behind them. “Would you care for some tea?”
“No, thank you.” Chris said more levelly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack by the door when Pollock motioned him to do so. “You mentioned something had been stolen from you?”
“Yes.” Pollock led him into what turned out to be a living room, as stiff and unwelcoming as the man who owned it, all black and gray and metal. He pointed to a black bookcase, which was filled with knickknacks and other miscellany – not a book to be seen anywhere in the room. One shelf, the middle of seven, was empty. “I had a life clock there.”
Chris whistled. “No wonder you didn’t want to speak over the phone.”
“Precisely,” the man said sharply. “I am trusting you to retrieve it for me and not simply take it for yourself.”
“I’ve no interest in such things, Mr. Pollock.” Chris scoffed. “One does not run a successful detective agency by stealing from clients.”
“Hmmm,” Pollock murmured in disbelief. “I’m sure your fees are highway robbery, like most of your lot.”
“My fees are determined after the case is successfully concluded,” Chris replied, proud that he managed not to roll his eyes. “I never charge what my clients can’t easily give.”
“And if I dislike your fee?”
Chris sighed. “It is always open for discussion.”
Pollock was silent for so long Chris started to think he’d fallen asleep standing.
“Very well.”
Chris again fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Then start at the beginning and tell me everything that occurred. Do not leave a single detail out.”
“Oh, I have no idea exactly what happened. I wasn’t at home when the robbery occurred. If I had been, you can be assured it would have been a failed attempt.”
Chris reminded himself, several times, that it was bad policy to strangle clients. “Then there were no witnesses?”
“There was one,” Pollock said, sounding both irate and bored. “I’ll summon him.” He pulled out an old, antique pocket watch and flicked it hard with his fingers.
“Thank you.”
When the person did finally enter, all Chris saw was red. A bright, obnoxious viridian, all of it focused on Pollock.
An imp stood in the door way. A tall one; if he stood to his full height he would probably be over six feet. His wings, which should have been folded neatly and ready to catch the wind at a moment’s notice, instead hung like dead things around his shoulders and chest. It was not unlike a child wrapped in a ragged, comforting blanket. On his arms and legs, and what he could see between the thin membranes of the wings, were a multitude of bruises, welts, and scars. His claws had been cut back all the way to his fingers, makings hands that should have been fine and elegant instead appear clumsy.
Worst of all was his forehead, where the horns that gave an imp his magical strength had been sawed off. Chris could see where the poorly done job had grazed skin. He looked into the imp’s eyes, which were mismatched, one gold, one green. They should have been bright, glowing with magic and power. Instead they were dim, filled with shadows and fear.
Chris couldn’t stand it. He knew all too well what it was like to be bullied, put down, mistreated simply for existing. That nearly all of the abnormal races abused imps simply because they were gentle by nature enraged him. This was not the first maltreated imp he’d seen, but it was one of the worst.
He kept his temper, but only just barely. “This is your witness?” he asked.
“Yes. I should have known better than to leave it home alone. Generally I take it with me, but honestly it gets tiresome having to lug your servants around all the time.”
One punch was all it would take. Chris held himself in check. “Then if you will excuse us. Witnesses talk better without an audience. If there is a problem, I will let you know.”
Pollock nodded and held out the old pocket watch. “Take this; he’ll do whatever you say.”
“However did you acquire a poor man’s genie?” Chris asked, using the somewhat mocking term for imps. They were second only to demons when it came to versatility of magic, nor were they too far behind in power. There were some who said a mature imp could probably equal a demon of moderate power. But no one knew for sure, because imps by nature were not aggressive for all that they looked like fierce gargoyles. They were, in fact, generally given to peaceful, submissive behavior.
Unfortunately, over the years this had led to other races ruthlessly abusing them. The popular thing to do was to bind imps, make them magically-bound slaves – all the power and ability meant imps could do a great deal, and it had become something of a joke to call them a cheap version of real genies. Able to do everything except grant wishes. A poor man’s genie.
Pollock grinned. “I’m very good at acquiring things.” He made a face at the imp. “Though you, for all your power, are not quite what I would have chosen if I’d had more choice.”
The imp said nothing, merely stood quietly, staring at the floor.
“Behave, imp,” Pollock said, and Chris didn’t trust the look he sent the imp. It screamed the man had something to hide. Which really came as no surprise.
He waited until Pollock was gone, then dropped the pocket watch on the coffee table and sat down in an armchair. Crossing one leg over the other, he steepled his fingers and eyed the imp. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t have one,” the imp said. He was staring at the pocket watch, eyes flicking briefly up to Chris, then back to the watch.
Chris grimaced. “That figures. How long have you been imprisoned?”
“A long time,” the imp said. “To Pollock, nearly thirty years. Before that, I changed hands quite a bit.” Something resembling a weak smile appeared briefly on his face, but it vanished almost immediately. “I’m not a very good poor genie, I suppose.”
“Your eyes are mismatched,” Chris said. “That’s not terribly common.”
The imp shrugged. “Nothing special; my mother was from the southern regions, my father from the north. Slightly different magic.”
“So you’re especially versatile.”
“Yes.”
“Yet he abuses you like that? Why?”
The imp shrugged again. “I tend not to be as obedient as he likes, I guess.” He flicked his eyes up again, ever so briefly, then once more stared at the watch. “That doesn’t control me quite like he expected. I…can still voice opinions.”
“I see,” Chris said, impressed. A bound imp generally had very little ability to do as he liked – even when and where he walked was restricted to his master’s will. “He hasn’t simply increased the power of the binding?”
“Tried. Doesn’t take. He would have to free me and then start fresh.” Another shrug. “Won’t risk it.”
Chris nodded. “So tell me about the night of the theft.” He sat back, fingers still steepled, and closed his eyes. “Tell me everything, leave nothing out.”
“I think my master did it,” the imp said softly.
“What?” Chris opened his eyes again.
The imp was hunched over, wings up as if to protect him though they were in such poor condition they wouldn’t protect against much. He was clearly waiting to be struck, and Chris did indeed feel like striking someone – just not the imp. Mismatched green and yellow eyes watched him with trepidation.
“That really doesn’t surprise me somehow,” Chris said dryly. “But how do you figure?”
The imp hesitated. “Are you…you don’t…I’m not supposed to speak against him.”
“Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
“Are you…really a detective? Like in the books?”
Chris’s eyebrows went up. “Not quite that exciting, I assure you. But yes, I really am a detective. Normals don’t have much use for me, but I plan on being one of the best in the field for abnormals.” He dropped his hands and leaned forward in his seat. “You’re interested in detective work?”
“Our neighbor reads mysteries, and she always throws the books out after she’s done. I…hide them in the attic and read after master goes to bed.” On his back, the imp’s wings fluttered agitatedly.
“Interesting,” Chris said, hatred of Pollock continuing to increase. “So tell me why you think Pollock is the one responsible.”
The imp looked at him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Nodding, the imp snapped his fingers and was suddenly holding a small notebook, spiral-bound across the top. He flipped it open and then held the notebook out for Chris to see.
Chris whistled. “Wow. I’m going to guess he doesn’t know you do this?”
The imp shook his head. “No. It…started out as something to do. Taking notes like detectives always do.”
“I don’t,” Chris said, flashing a brief smile. “Too lazy, I think. Prefer to just remember it. This is impressive. You even recorded pieces of the conversations.”
“He argued with her, finally drove her away. She was furious – claimed Pollock stole the life clock from her grandfather. Started out peacefully enough, but Pollock was demanding an unfair price. She warned him she wasn’t finished yet. Three days later the life clock was stolen, but I don’t think by her.”
Chris nodded as he continued to flip through the pages of meticulous notes the imp had made. All manner of details had been included – times, clothing, what was said, who had been standing where, literally everything, all of it in a small, neat hand. “You do this for fun?”
The imp ducked his head, wrapping arms and wings around himself. “I used to write down just ordinary stuff – what I did for the day, what master did, who visited, who called, just…playing.” His wings fluttered. “Pretending to be a detective. That’s why I wrote down the fight over the life clock. Then the robbery happened, and I thought I could solve it by myself. But I realized almost right away that Pollock was behind it…”
And he couldn’t do anything against his master. Even now, he was only able to say and do all he was because control had been partially handed over to Chris for the interview, and Pollock was separated from the controlling pocket watch.
“Hmm….” Chris sat back in his chair once more, legs crossed, fingers steepled, eyes closed. “So in all likelihood, he set up the ‘theft’ to frame the woman threatening to take it. Even if that didn’t work, he can legitimately claim he no longer has it and you’re the only one who can prove that isn’t true.” He opened his eyes. “Why on earth did he let me speak to you?”
“He doesn’t realize I know this much.” The imp looked at him, his dim eyes beginning to glow the slightest bit. “I can’t do much, but I don’t have to answer questions he doesn’t ask. He knew I saw the fight three days ago; it never occurred to him to wonder if I might know more.”
Chris smiled. “I think it’s time we had a little chat with Pollock, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see, and I know this is hard thing to ask and I have no right, but trust me.” Chris moved to the door and was unsurprised to see Pollock skulking around in the hallway. “If you want to come in, I think I know what might have happened.”
Pollock frowned at him, looking as though he’d swallowed a lemon. “Oh, really. That quickly?”
“Yes, actually.” Chris stepped aside so Pollock could enter the living room and motioned for him to sit. “According to my research, sir, you are responsible for the theft.”
“That’s preposterous. Why would I steal something in my own living room? I don’t need to steal it if I already own it.”
Laughing, Chris began to lay out what he could see happened from the imp’s notes. “You got into an argument with Ms. Wilson, who claimed to be the rightful owner of the life clock. From what I know of life clocks, she was probably correct. You must be distantly related for the clock to work at all, as they are made to work for a specific bloodline only. So your claim, while weak, is valid. This sparked the argument between the two of you, and Ms. Wilson vowed the matter wasn’t finished. No doubt she was planning to return with plenty of evidence and documentation to settle the matter. To avoid that, you arranged for the clock to be stolen – ostensibly to frame Ms. Wilson, but that won’t hold for long when she fails to produce the clock. So, at the very least, she can’t harass you for what you no longer have.” Chris laughed. “Something that wasn’t terribly hard for me to figure out. Why on earth did you hire a detective when you knew there was a risk he might actually solve the case?”
“You were supposed to decide it was that bitch,” Pollock said. “Since when is a detective in this area worth more than the cost of his bribe?” He stood up and snatched the pocket watch from the table. “Besides, if you don’t do what I need, it’s easy enough to get rid of you and hire another. All I need is a detective who will state that the bitch did the stealing.” He gripped the pocket watch hard and barked at the imp. “Get rid of him.”
“Master…”
“Now!”
It was obvious the imp was struggling to resist, but orders were orders.
Chris laughed as the imp attacked, choosing to attack physically rather than magically – even under orders, it seemed he wouldn’t do anything worse than he strictly had to, and physical fighting would give Chris a chance.
The imp fell right through him, and Chris laughed at the expression on both their faces.
Pollock’s face took on a peculiar shade of red. “You’re a ghost. But that’s impossible.”
“I’m no ghost.” Chris kept his intangible form, knowing how disconcerting it was to be able to see right through him. He winked briefly at the imp, then returned his attention to Pollock. “I’m actually only half-ghost. Weird things happen when humans play around with black magic. Go ahead, keep trying to hurt me. You won’t get anywhere. I can vanish before the imp finishes a spell, and you can’t do anything without your slave.”
He smirked as Pollock seethed in silence. “It really was dumb of you to hire me. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to declare this case unsolved and walk away from it. No one will ever hear from me that you stole your own artifact to keep it from its rightful owner. If she comes knocking at my door, I plead ignorance. In return, you’ll pay my fee for wasting my afternoon and then we ignore one another’s existence.”
“What’s your price?”
Chris pointed. “Give me the imp. I’ll make more use out of it than you, and you said yourself he’s not a very good one.”
“Do you know how hard a powerful imp is to come by?”
“You have his horns, what more do you really need if he’s as annoying as you say?”
Pollock narrowed his eyes, looking more like a confused old man than an actual threat. “Why would you want him?”
“Make a good assistant. I’m half ghost, but that doesn’t stop everything, does it? Let me have him, or I’ll make sure everyone knows you have the life clock stashed somewhere in this house. I could probably find it without too much trouble.” Chris grinned. “Not much you can hide from a ghost, is there?”
“Fine,” Pollock said. “I never much trusted that rat anyway.” He threw the pocket watch at Chris, who caught it easily. “Now get out.”
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Chris said, pocketing the watch and motioning for the imp to follow him.
Outside he started laughing, and pulled the watch from his pocket. “Do you know how to break the ward?”
The imp frowned. “Depends on whether or not you want to keep the watch.”
“Not really. It’s kind of ugly, don’t you think?” He held it out. “Here, do whatever you want with it.”
“Why did you ask to keep me?” The imp took the watch as if it was made of glass, or a living creature.
“Because it was the easiest way to get you out of there,” Chris said, pulling up the collar of his beat-up jacket to keep the worst of the snow off. “So how do I break the ward?”
“Destroying the watch will destroy the spell. It’s why I was sort of surprised you just left it on the table.”
Chris shrugged. “So destroy it.”
Instead of hesitating, as he’d thought the imp would, the watch was immediately crushed in hands that were far stronger than they looked. Chris grinned. “Hungry? My mom would love to fuss over you, and if you’re looking for a job I could use an assistant. Pay isn’t great, I’m barely making ends meet right now, but once I start acquiring a rep that’ll change. What do you say?”
“You…you don’t want to bind me?” He was the saddest thing Chris had ever seen, a bedraggled, beat up imp slowly being covered with slushy snow, tail twitching nervously, wings shifting with an urge to fly and it must hurt the imp badly that his wings were so torn and ill-treated that flight was impossible. Never mind the horns…if it was the last thing he did, Chris wanted to see this creature healthy and happy.
“My mother would flay me alive if she caught me enslaving creatures. Never mind my father, the ol’ stick in the mud.” Chris rolled his eyes. “Like a ghost has any fucking right to bitch about anyone else’s ethics when he’s got a kid running around.”
The imp surprised him by laughing. “That’s powerful black magic.”
Chris smiled fondly as they turned down a small street. At the end of it, half-lost to the snow that was rapidly growing heavy, was an old , beat up manor. Even from a distance it was obvious the massive front gate was old and rusted. “Yes, it was. My mother hasn’t tried anything like it since, though if anyone could qualify as a black witch, it would be her.”
“She’s married to a ghost?”
“Only in a commonwealth way, since there’s not a priest alive – that we’ve found – that’ll marry them properly.” Chris looked at his parents’ house, the lights on in the front room and in their bedroom, and he knew his mother would have already set a place for them, somehow always knowing. “It’s hard to find what they have; I keep hoping I will but I have my doubts.” He winked. “Being a detective doesn’t leave much room for dating. It’ll be nice to have an assistant, if you’re willing.”
The imp smiled – hesitantly, briefly, but his eyes were already far lighter than they had been, and free of the binding they even had a bit of their magic glow back. “Mas—Pollock won’t just let me go, I think. He’s far too nasty.”
“Let him try something,” Chris said lazily. “I’ll show him to mess with me. I’ve been in nastier fights than anything he can offer.” He stopped suddenly, then laughed. “It occurs to me I never really introduced myself, did I?” He held out his hand. “Christian White, paranormal detective. Most call me Chris.”
The imp shook his hand slowly. “Um…nice to meet you.”
“I guess you need a name, huh?” Chris laughed. “Any ideas?”
“Not really,” the imp said quietly.
Chris frowned in thought, pausing briefly as they reached the gates of his parents’ house. “My parents used to be friends with a cop – completely normal, until he helped my mom out one night, wanted to ask her out, and long story short met my father. He sort of freaked, but they all became good friends.” Chris looked up, snow catching on his lashes, then finally pushed the gate open and led the way to the house. “He was killed a few years ago by a goblin. But he’s the one that got me into detective work – said not to join the force, that he always wished he’d opened his own agency. His name was Douglas – how does that sound?”
“I like it.” Douglas smiled.
Chris buried his hands deeper into the pockets of his beat up brown leather jacket, and tried to pull his head as far into it as he possibly could, but even it and the heavy wool sweater underneath couldn’t keep out the biting chill of the snowy afternoon. Only two-thirty and already it looked as though it were six o’clock at night. He knocked on the door and stood huddled and shivering on the steps of a house just on the outskirts of town, wishing for his drafty office because at least the draft didn’t come with snow.
Hopefully this latest case would be a lucrative one. He would gladly help anyone who asked, but he wished occasionally somebody wealthy needed his assistance. Or at least someone wealthy and willing to share. Maybe this guy would be one of those.
The door opened slowly to reveal a figure that immediately dashed all his hopes. Thin, wrinkled, and rigid-looking despite the age that forced him to use a cane, he looked exactly like someone who resented spending money in any way, shape or form. Chris sensed the man wasn’t nearly so aged and frail as he appeared. Something in his posture and the cruel twist to his mouth, the hard and unflinching dark brown eyes. “What do you want, boy?”
“My name is Christian White. You requested my services?”
“You look a mite young to be playing detective.”
Chris narrowed his blue eyes, temper beginning to simmer. “I do not play at anything, Mr. Pollock. If you deem me inadequate then that is your loss. Good day to you, sir.” He turned to leave.
“Wait one moment, boy.”
“Detective or Chris will suffice,” Chris said icily. “Boy will not.”
“Do come in, Detective,” Pollock waved him inside and closed and locked the door behind them. “Would you care for some tea?”
“No, thank you.” Chris said more levelly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack by the door when Pollock motioned him to do so. “You mentioned something had been stolen from you?”
“Yes.” Pollock led him into what turned out to be a living room, as stiff and unwelcoming as the man who owned it, all black and gray and metal. He pointed to a black bookcase, which was filled with knickknacks and other miscellany – not a book to be seen anywhere in the room. One shelf, the middle of seven, was empty. “I had a life clock there.”
Chris whistled. “No wonder you didn’t want to speak over the phone.”
“Precisely,” the man said sharply. “I am trusting you to retrieve it for me and not simply take it for yourself.”
“I’ve no interest in such things, Mr. Pollock.” Chris scoffed. “One does not run a successful detective agency by stealing from clients.”
“Hmmm,” Pollock murmured in disbelief. “I’m sure your fees are highway robbery, like most of your lot.”
“My fees are determined after the case is successfully concluded,” Chris replied, proud that he managed not to roll his eyes. “I never charge what my clients can’t easily give.”
“And if I dislike your fee?”
Chris sighed. “It is always open for discussion.”
Pollock was silent for so long Chris started to think he’d fallen asleep standing.
“Very well.”
Chris again fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Then start at the beginning and tell me everything that occurred. Do not leave a single detail out.”
“Oh, I have no idea exactly what happened. I wasn’t at home when the robbery occurred. If I had been, you can be assured it would have been a failed attempt.”
Chris reminded himself, several times, that it was bad policy to strangle clients. “Then there were no witnesses?”
“There was one,” Pollock said, sounding both irate and bored. “I’ll summon him.” He pulled out an old, antique pocket watch and flicked it hard with his fingers.
“Thank you.”
When the person did finally enter, all Chris saw was red. A bright, obnoxious viridian, all of it focused on Pollock.
An imp stood in the door way. A tall one; if he stood to his full height he would probably be over six feet. His wings, which should have been folded neatly and ready to catch the wind at a moment’s notice, instead hung like dead things around his shoulders and chest. It was not unlike a child wrapped in a ragged, comforting blanket. On his arms and legs, and what he could see between the thin membranes of the wings, were a multitude of bruises, welts, and scars. His claws had been cut back all the way to his fingers, makings hands that should have been fine and elegant instead appear clumsy.
Worst of all was his forehead, where the horns that gave an imp his magical strength had been sawed off. Chris could see where the poorly done job had grazed skin. He looked into the imp’s eyes, which were mismatched, one gold, one green. They should have been bright, glowing with magic and power. Instead they were dim, filled with shadows and fear.
Chris couldn’t stand it. He knew all too well what it was like to be bullied, put down, mistreated simply for existing. That nearly all of the abnormal races abused imps simply because they were gentle by nature enraged him. This was not the first maltreated imp he’d seen, but it was one of the worst.
He kept his temper, but only just barely. “This is your witness?” he asked.
“Yes. I should have known better than to leave it home alone. Generally I take it with me, but honestly it gets tiresome having to lug your servants around all the time.”
One punch was all it would take. Chris held himself in check. “Then if you will excuse us. Witnesses talk better without an audience. If there is a problem, I will let you know.”
Pollock nodded and held out the old pocket watch. “Take this; he’ll do whatever you say.”
“However did you acquire a poor man’s genie?” Chris asked, using the somewhat mocking term for imps. They were second only to demons when it came to versatility of magic, nor were they too far behind in power. There were some who said a mature imp could probably equal a demon of moderate power. But no one knew for sure, because imps by nature were not aggressive for all that they looked like fierce gargoyles. They were, in fact, generally given to peaceful, submissive behavior.
Unfortunately, over the years this had led to other races ruthlessly abusing them. The popular thing to do was to bind imps, make them magically-bound slaves – all the power and ability meant imps could do a great deal, and it had become something of a joke to call them a cheap version of real genies. Able to do everything except grant wishes. A poor man’s genie.
Pollock grinned. “I’m very good at acquiring things.” He made a face at the imp. “Though you, for all your power, are not quite what I would have chosen if I’d had more choice.”
The imp said nothing, merely stood quietly, staring at the floor.
“Behave, imp,” Pollock said, and Chris didn’t trust the look he sent the imp. It screamed the man had something to hide. Which really came as no surprise.
He waited until Pollock was gone, then dropped the pocket watch on the coffee table and sat down in an armchair. Crossing one leg over the other, he steepled his fingers and eyed the imp. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t have one,” the imp said. He was staring at the pocket watch, eyes flicking briefly up to Chris, then back to the watch.
Chris grimaced. “That figures. How long have you been imprisoned?”
“A long time,” the imp said. “To Pollock, nearly thirty years. Before that, I changed hands quite a bit.” Something resembling a weak smile appeared briefly on his face, but it vanished almost immediately. “I’m not a very good poor genie, I suppose.”
“Your eyes are mismatched,” Chris said. “That’s not terribly common.”
The imp shrugged. “Nothing special; my mother was from the southern regions, my father from the north. Slightly different magic.”
“So you’re especially versatile.”
“Yes.”
“Yet he abuses you like that? Why?”
The imp shrugged again. “I tend not to be as obedient as he likes, I guess.” He flicked his eyes up again, ever so briefly, then once more stared at the watch. “That doesn’t control me quite like he expected. I…can still voice opinions.”
“I see,” Chris said, impressed. A bound imp generally had very little ability to do as he liked – even when and where he walked was restricted to his master’s will. “He hasn’t simply increased the power of the binding?”
“Tried. Doesn’t take. He would have to free me and then start fresh.” Another shrug. “Won’t risk it.”
Chris nodded. “So tell me about the night of the theft.” He sat back, fingers still steepled, and closed his eyes. “Tell me everything, leave nothing out.”
“I think my master did it,” the imp said softly.
“What?” Chris opened his eyes again.
The imp was hunched over, wings up as if to protect him though they were in such poor condition they wouldn’t protect against much. He was clearly waiting to be struck, and Chris did indeed feel like striking someone – just not the imp. Mismatched green and yellow eyes watched him with trepidation.
“That really doesn’t surprise me somehow,” Chris said dryly. “But how do you figure?”
The imp hesitated. “Are you…you don’t…I’m not supposed to speak against him.”
“Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
“Are you…really a detective? Like in the books?”
Chris’s eyebrows went up. “Not quite that exciting, I assure you. But yes, I really am a detective. Normals don’t have much use for me, but I plan on being one of the best in the field for abnormals.” He dropped his hands and leaned forward in his seat. “You’re interested in detective work?”
“Our neighbor reads mysteries, and she always throws the books out after she’s done. I…hide them in the attic and read after master goes to bed.” On his back, the imp’s wings fluttered agitatedly.
“Interesting,” Chris said, hatred of Pollock continuing to increase. “So tell me why you think Pollock is the one responsible.”
The imp looked at him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Nodding, the imp snapped his fingers and was suddenly holding a small notebook, spiral-bound across the top. He flipped it open and then held the notebook out for Chris to see.
Chris whistled. “Wow. I’m going to guess he doesn’t know you do this?”
The imp shook his head. “No. It…started out as something to do. Taking notes like detectives always do.”
“I don’t,” Chris said, flashing a brief smile. “Too lazy, I think. Prefer to just remember it. This is impressive. You even recorded pieces of the conversations.”
“He argued with her, finally drove her away. She was furious – claimed Pollock stole the life clock from her grandfather. Started out peacefully enough, but Pollock was demanding an unfair price. She warned him she wasn’t finished yet. Three days later the life clock was stolen, but I don’t think by her.”
Chris nodded as he continued to flip through the pages of meticulous notes the imp had made. All manner of details had been included – times, clothing, what was said, who had been standing where, literally everything, all of it in a small, neat hand. “You do this for fun?”
The imp ducked his head, wrapping arms and wings around himself. “I used to write down just ordinary stuff – what I did for the day, what master did, who visited, who called, just…playing.” His wings fluttered. “Pretending to be a detective. That’s why I wrote down the fight over the life clock. Then the robbery happened, and I thought I could solve it by myself. But I realized almost right away that Pollock was behind it…”
And he couldn’t do anything against his master. Even now, he was only able to say and do all he was because control had been partially handed over to Chris for the interview, and Pollock was separated from the controlling pocket watch.
“Hmm….” Chris sat back in his chair once more, legs crossed, fingers steepled, eyes closed. “So in all likelihood, he set up the ‘theft’ to frame the woman threatening to take it. Even if that didn’t work, he can legitimately claim he no longer has it and you’re the only one who can prove that isn’t true.” He opened his eyes. “Why on earth did he let me speak to you?”
“He doesn’t realize I know this much.” The imp looked at him, his dim eyes beginning to glow the slightest bit. “I can’t do much, but I don’t have to answer questions he doesn’t ask. He knew I saw the fight three days ago; it never occurred to him to wonder if I might know more.”
Chris smiled. “I think it’s time we had a little chat with Pollock, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see, and I know this is hard thing to ask and I have no right, but trust me.” Chris moved to the door and was unsurprised to see Pollock skulking around in the hallway. “If you want to come in, I think I know what might have happened.”
Pollock frowned at him, looking as though he’d swallowed a lemon. “Oh, really. That quickly?”
“Yes, actually.” Chris stepped aside so Pollock could enter the living room and motioned for him to sit. “According to my research, sir, you are responsible for the theft.”
“That’s preposterous. Why would I steal something in my own living room? I don’t need to steal it if I already own it.”
Laughing, Chris began to lay out what he could see happened from the imp’s notes. “You got into an argument with Ms. Wilson, who claimed to be the rightful owner of the life clock. From what I know of life clocks, she was probably correct. You must be distantly related for the clock to work at all, as they are made to work for a specific bloodline only. So your claim, while weak, is valid. This sparked the argument between the two of you, and Ms. Wilson vowed the matter wasn’t finished. No doubt she was planning to return with plenty of evidence and documentation to settle the matter. To avoid that, you arranged for the clock to be stolen – ostensibly to frame Ms. Wilson, but that won’t hold for long when she fails to produce the clock. So, at the very least, she can’t harass you for what you no longer have.” Chris laughed. “Something that wasn’t terribly hard for me to figure out. Why on earth did you hire a detective when you knew there was a risk he might actually solve the case?”
“You were supposed to decide it was that bitch,” Pollock said. “Since when is a detective in this area worth more than the cost of his bribe?” He stood up and snatched the pocket watch from the table. “Besides, if you don’t do what I need, it’s easy enough to get rid of you and hire another. All I need is a detective who will state that the bitch did the stealing.” He gripped the pocket watch hard and barked at the imp. “Get rid of him.”
“Master…”
“Now!”
It was obvious the imp was struggling to resist, but orders were orders.
Chris laughed as the imp attacked, choosing to attack physically rather than magically – even under orders, it seemed he wouldn’t do anything worse than he strictly had to, and physical fighting would give Chris a chance.
The imp fell right through him, and Chris laughed at the expression on both their faces.
Pollock’s face took on a peculiar shade of red. “You’re a ghost. But that’s impossible.”
“I’m no ghost.” Chris kept his intangible form, knowing how disconcerting it was to be able to see right through him. He winked briefly at the imp, then returned his attention to Pollock. “I’m actually only half-ghost. Weird things happen when humans play around with black magic. Go ahead, keep trying to hurt me. You won’t get anywhere. I can vanish before the imp finishes a spell, and you can’t do anything without your slave.”
He smirked as Pollock seethed in silence. “It really was dumb of you to hire me. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to declare this case unsolved and walk away from it. No one will ever hear from me that you stole your own artifact to keep it from its rightful owner. If she comes knocking at my door, I plead ignorance. In return, you’ll pay my fee for wasting my afternoon and then we ignore one another’s existence.”
“What’s your price?”
Chris pointed. “Give me the imp. I’ll make more use out of it than you, and you said yourself he’s not a very good one.”
“Do you know how hard a powerful imp is to come by?”
“You have his horns, what more do you really need if he’s as annoying as you say?”
Pollock narrowed his eyes, looking more like a confused old man than an actual threat. “Why would you want him?”
“Make a good assistant. I’m half ghost, but that doesn’t stop everything, does it? Let me have him, or I’ll make sure everyone knows you have the life clock stashed somewhere in this house. I could probably find it without too much trouble.” Chris grinned. “Not much you can hide from a ghost, is there?”
“Fine,” Pollock said. “I never much trusted that rat anyway.” He threw the pocket watch at Chris, who caught it easily. “Now get out.”
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Chris said, pocketing the watch and motioning for the imp to follow him.
Outside he started laughing, and pulled the watch from his pocket. “Do you know how to break the ward?”
The imp frowned. “Depends on whether or not you want to keep the watch.”
“Not really. It’s kind of ugly, don’t you think?” He held it out. “Here, do whatever you want with it.”
“Why did you ask to keep me?” The imp took the watch as if it was made of glass, or a living creature.
“Because it was the easiest way to get you out of there,” Chris said, pulling up the collar of his beat-up jacket to keep the worst of the snow off. “So how do I break the ward?”
“Destroying the watch will destroy the spell. It’s why I was sort of surprised you just left it on the table.”
Chris shrugged. “So destroy it.”
Instead of hesitating, as he’d thought the imp would, the watch was immediately crushed in hands that were far stronger than they looked. Chris grinned. “Hungry? My mom would love to fuss over you, and if you’re looking for a job I could use an assistant. Pay isn’t great, I’m barely making ends meet right now, but once I start acquiring a rep that’ll change. What do you say?”
“You…you don’t want to bind me?” He was the saddest thing Chris had ever seen, a bedraggled, beat up imp slowly being covered with slushy snow, tail twitching nervously, wings shifting with an urge to fly and it must hurt the imp badly that his wings were so torn and ill-treated that flight was impossible. Never mind the horns…if it was the last thing he did, Chris wanted to see this creature healthy and happy.
“My mother would flay me alive if she caught me enslaving creatures. Never mind my father, the ol’ stick in the mud.” Chris rolled his eyes. “Like a ghost has any fucking right to bitch about anyone else’s ethics when he’s got a kid running around.”
The imp surprised him by laughing. “That’s powerful black magic.”
Chris smiled fondly as they turned down a small street. At the end of it, half-lost to the snow that was rapidly growing heavy, was an old , beat up manor. Even from a distance it was obvious the massive front gate was old and rusted. “Yes, it was. My mother hasn’t tried anything like it since, though if anyone could qualify as a black witch, it would be her.”
“She’s married to a ghost?”
“Only in a commonwealth way, since there’s not a priest alive – that we’ve found – that’ll marry them properly.” Chris looked at his parents’ house, the lights on in the front room and in their bedroom, and he knew his mother would have already set a place for them, somehow always knowing. “It’s hard to find what they have; I keep hoping I will but I have my doubts.” He winked. “Being a detective doesn’t leave much room for dating. It’ll be nice to have an assistant, if you’re willing.”
The imp smiled – hesitantly, briefly, but his eyes were already far lighter than they had been, and free of the binding they even had a bit of their magic glow back. “Mas—Pollock won’t just let me go, I think. He’s far too nasty.”
“Let him try something,” Chris said lazily. “I’ll show him to mess with me. I’ve been in nastier fights than anything he can offer.” He stopped suddenly, then laughed. “It occurs to me I never really introduced myself, did I?” He held out his hand. “Christian White, paranormal detective. Most call me Chris.”
The imp shook his hand slowly. “Um…nice to meet you.”
“I guess you need a name, huh?” Chris laughed. “Any ideas?”
“Not really,” the imp said quietly.
Chris frowned in thought, pausing briefly as they reached the gates of his parents’ house. “My parents used to be friends with a cop – completely normal, until he helped my mom out one night, wanted to ask her out, and long story short met my father. He sort of freaked, but they all became good friends.” Chris looked up, snow catching on his lashes, then finally pushed the gate open and led the way to the house. “He was killed a few years ago by a goblin. But he’s the one that got me into detective work – said not to join the force, that he always wished he’d opened his own agency. His name was Douglas – how does that sound?”
“I like it.” Douglas smiled.
