Page 6 of Caroled
“Yeah, I know what he said.” Ferencz sounded slightly annoyed. For reasons that were unclear to Charles, Ferencz and Donne had always been uneasy about Townsend. Not that Charles entirely trusted the man either, but those two agents must have had some unhappy history with him. They worked for him anyway, and had for nearly fifteen years. “Are you all right with coming over to our place? It’s hard for Thomas to get around right now.”
“That’s fine. When?”
“No time like the present. Anyway, I’m gonna feel a lot more relaxed when you’ve officially taken over.”
“We can come over now.”
“We?”
Ah. So Townsend hadn’t told Ferencz everything. “I have a partner.”
“Good. Nobody should work this city alone.”
Charles jotted down the address and hung up. Tenrael was still on the chair, gazing down. “So much movement,” he said. He added something in a language Charles didn’t understand; it might have been ancient Greek.
“Are you ready to go?”
Tenrael hopped lightly to the floor. “I will have to put on shoes,” he said unhappily.
“If you don’t like the ones I got you, we can buy another pair. They have shops in San Francisco. The Bureau can pay.” In their present circumstances, Charles figured, shoes were a legitimate business expense.
But Tenrael shook his head. “I will not like any shoes. But I will wear them anyway. I have endured worse torture than that.” He shot Charles a cheeky grin as they donned their overcoats and, forgoing hats, left the room.
The lobby of the St. Francis was festooned with Christmas decorations, an enormous fir tree in a place of honor. It must have taken a tall ladder for someone to place the topmost ornaments. Some of the festive air was diminished by the closed shops between the lobby and the main entrance, their windows papered over. The bellboy had informed them earlier that those spaces had been converted to lodging for military officers. Charles supposed he should feel grateful he’d been given a regular room.
Although he'd been to San Francisco a few times, he didn’t know the city well and found its routes somewhat confusing. He took wrong turns twice, which Tenrael must have noticed but didn’t comment on. Charles was relieved to discover that the streets near the Inner Richmond district were laid out in a more orderly fashion. He parked across from Ferencz and Donne’s house, a modest dormered one-and-a-half-story structure with a bay window next to the small front porch. It had no front garden space, but a pair of large flowerpots flanked the door.
Tenrael paused after getting out of the car. “I do not often meet people.”
True enough. Charles was the one who met with clients; he might strike them as odd, but Tenrael would have scared the wits out of most of them. The two of them rarely socialized with others, the exceptions being Sam and Anita Leonard and their toddler daughter—none of whom were quite human and all of whom were accustomed to unusual people. Sam was a Bureau agent, in fact.
“You can wait in the car if you want,” Charles offered.
“What doyouwant?”
“I’d rather have you there. You should hear firsthand whatever these fellows have to say.”
Tenrael straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. “All right.”
Abe Ferencz met them at the door with a genuine smile. He was a handsome man, not especially tall but well-built. He didn’t look any older than when Charles had first met him fourteen years earlier; his dark hair showed no gray and his face was mostly unlined. He was somewhere around sixty years old but looked half that.
“It’s great to see you again.” Ferencz gave Charles a firm handshake and ushered both of them into the narrow foyer. “I’m glad they sent you and not one of those putzes from HQ.”
“It’s nice to see you again too. And this is my partner, Tenrael. Ten, meet Abe Ferencz.”
During the drive up, Tenrael had asked whether he should adopt a less exotic name to go along with his less noteworthy façade. But Charles preferred to keep things simple, and pseudonyms tended to get complicated. Besides, San Francisco was full of immigrants bearing names from their home countries; with Tenrael’s accent, people would just assume he was from another country. Which he was, strictly speaking.
The handshake between Tenrael and Ferencz was somewhat awkward—maybe Charles should have practiced with him—but that wasn’t what made Ferencz’s eyes widen. He muttered a prayer in Hebrew. Charles had been taught many blessings as part of his Bureau training, but he didn't quite catch the words of this one.
Before Charles or Tenrael could grow too alarmed, Ferencz released Tenrael’s hand and shook his head slowly. “I’m not even going to ask. You’ve obviously made an effort to blend in with us regular joes, so I’m gonna play along. I guess it’s none of my business anyway.”
Tenrael looked puzzled, but Charles nodded. Ferencz could sense ghosts and other spirits, so it made sense that he could distinguish a demon from humans, even when the demon wore a disguise. Ferencz had hinted a few times in the past that he knew Charles was unusual too, but he hadn’t pried. It was one of the things Charles liked about him.
Ferencz hung their coats on hooks near the door before leading them into the front room, a surprisingly large space with comfortable-looking furniture. Framed posters from Ferencz’s days as a magician hung on the walls. He’d been Abe France, Czar of the Realm of Spirits, and his images bore a mesmerizing gaze.
Thomas Donne reclined lengthwise on the sofa with his legs elevated on cushions, his left pajama trouser leg trimmed to accommodate a bulky cast. He wore a nubbly gray sweater and a slight scowl, but Charles didn’t take offense at his expression. Donne usually scowled. He was fifty or so, Charles recalled, and unlike Ferencz, he showed his age. But his large body still looked powerful.
After the second round of introductions, Charles pointed his chin at Donne’s leg. “Is it bad?”
