Page 46 of The Dark Hiss of Magic
I rubbed my head against his ear. He howled as if I’d bitten him and started to hop from foot to foot. ‘Get it off me! Get it fucking off me!’ He reached up to grab me. Sensing that this time he’d succeed, I extended my claws and scraped them against the soft flesh of his cheek, then I bounded off his shoulder and sprinted up the stairs and away.
‘I’ll skin you alive and eat you for breakfast!’
Yeah, yeah. He’d have to catch me first. I ran along the second-floor landing to the next set of stairs. I could still hear his complaints – and his companions’ sniggers – when I reached the third floor. Doubtless he’d soon be making an official complaint to someone, so my time was limited.
That wouldn’t have been a problem if it weren’t for the buzz of the magical ward I could sense right in front of me. I didn’t need to throw myself at it to know that it was too strong for me. I’d never get past it without some canny thinking or a clever detour.
I drew as close as I dared, my skin tingling beneath my fur. I sniffed and caught the metallic tang of powerful enchantments. Hmm: that wasn’t good, not good at all. I’d hoped that anywards wouldn’t reach the floor and I could duck underneath them, but whoever had set this one in place had been particularly diligent.
I glanced to my right and then my left. The gleaming wooden banister that hugged the staircase continued in both directions, framing the open hallway. Could I leap onto it and walk it like a tightrope in the hope that there was a gap in the ward further up? I’d have to be mindful of my youthful clumsiness – the last thing I wanted was to plunge three storeys to the ground floor. In this body I’d probably survive the fall, but it wasn’t a given.
I gazed warily at the polished wood. My claws were sharp but I doubted they’d be much use on that slippery surface. Damn. I had to give it a go. I had totry. Bunching my muscles, I focused on the narrow banister. I could do this; I just had to concentrate. I would jump on a count of three.
One.
Two.
Two and a half.
Three.
I stayed where I was.
This was stupid. I was in the wrong body and I wasn’t foolishly reckless. Even if there was a weak point in the wards and I didn't plunge to my death before I found it, I had no plan about what to do once I found Fetch Daniel Jackson. How would I get him to talk to me without raising the alarm? How would I escape after I’d interrogated him? I’d be risking my life for absolutely nothing.
I stared at the banister for another long moment then turned tail and slunk down the stairs with a lot less speed and attitude than I’d ascended them. I tried not to think about the look in Thane’s eyes when I told him my trip had been a waste of time. Damn. Double damn.
When I reached the first-floor landing, it was apparent that the meal was over. Streams of well-fed, rosy-cheeked witches filed past, and more than a few eyes widened in my direction. I huffed. I wasn’t in the mood to be kicked again by any whining idiots with allergies but neither did I feel like rushing out of the council headquarters.
I avoided the occasional coaxing hand that reached out to me and darted behind a heavy looking pedestal and statue in a dark corner. Hunkering down, I waited for everyone to pass. It seemed to take an incredibly long time.
When they’d all disappeared, white-coated members of staff appeared. They were witches too, though considerably less talented and with less impressive lineages than those who’d sat down for dinner. The bustle of important people was replaced by the hustle of employees keen to get their jobs done so they could get home as soon as possible.
Clinking trolleys filled with dirty crockery and cutlery passed by, halting briefly near the stairs where levitational magic was applied and the crockery floated downwards, presumably to the kitchen. A dumb waiter would have been far easier, I decided, as several stained tablecloths descended. Witches often chose the most complicated system simply because they could. The more powerful they were, the less common sense they seemed to have and the lazier they were.
I followed the floating tablecloths with disinterested eyes – then I watched them more closely. The linen wasn’t taking the same path as the crockery: it turned right instead of left before disappearing. I hesitated, then slid out from my hiding spot.
It was much quieter now, so it was easy to slip unobtrusively down the final staircase after the departing laundry. A group of witches was standing nearby, one of whom was wearing familiar kitten heels. I felt a brush of tension as I nipped past her, but she was engrossed in her conversationand neither Kitten Heels nor her companions seemed to notice me.
I stayed in the shadows where I wouldn’t be spotted. The clump of tablecloths travelled fifty metres before another white-coated staff member plucked them from the air and threw them into a large, wheeled trolley. She looked down the hallway to check if there were any more then, with a bored sigh, pushed the trolley through a wide door. I slipped through it before it closed in my whiskered face.
I’d expected the laundry room to be busy and I was prepared to work hard to stay out of sight, but I needn’t have worried. There were only two people inside – the woman I’d already seen and a younger man who was little more than a teenager. Both of them were engrossed in their mundane task; even if they’d spotted the small ginger cat who’d come into the room, I doubted they’d have cared.
Magic buzzed at the far side of the room where sheets, towels, tablecloths and clothes were being dried; enchanted bursts of warm air were a boon to anyone with loads of washing to dry, though I knew from my own experience that the actual process of washing was more effective if it was done in a machine with real water. Spells could be useful on stubborn stains but clothes washed magically never felt truly clean or fresh. That was why the staff were separating the piles of dirty clothes into colours and types, bundling them into vast washing machines then taking them out for magically enhanced drying.
I eyed the different piles and focused on some small tin tubs that appeared to contain dark clothing. There were scribbled notes attached to each container, doubtless to identify who the contents belonged to. A lot of the council witches used the service here for their personal laundry; witches who were toolazy to carry their plates down a flight of stairs were also too lazy to do their own washing.
Giving the two busy workers a wide berth, I edged around the perimeter of the room, padded to the tubs and squinted at the labels. At least they were neatly printed and easy to read.
S. Lawrence. F. Austin. E. Saunders. H. Risbridger.
A few of the names were vaguely familiar but nothing specific came to mind. I kept going.
N. Bradley. K. Hammer. M. Sijugo.
I bared my teeth. This was likely a wild-goose chase.
B. Hausman. R. Mitt.
