Page 5 of Guarded By the Golem

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Mason,” he said.

“Do you think I came here to beg?”

“You came because you need work. This is work.”

“You know it wasn’t right to fire me,” I said.

“The last job you did was a mess, and I don’t care whose fault it was.”

Fair enough. I could argue and get kicked out of his office, or I could swallow my pride and see this as a second chance.

“Why me?” I asked. “Why did you say on the phone that I’m the only one who can do it?”

He smirked, and I knew him well enough to know what he was going to say was a lie, or at the very least, not the whole truth.

“It’s long term. And it’s tedious. Only someone as rock-solid and unmoving as you can do it. No pun intended.”

“I can see it’s long term.”

“Yes. If the client likes you, and you do a good job, he will keep you busy for years.”

“I gather you don’t want your good agents to be stuck in a dead-end job like this.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is. But look on the bright side. You’ll have a steady income. You’ll still work under the MSA, but I won’t have to see your face every day and be reminded about how badly you fucked up.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine.” I scribbled my name on the contract and pushed it over to him.

The truth was, I had no choice. I didn’t know what the job was, just that it sounded unusual. I was going to find out soon enough.

“This is the address.” Taros scribbled it on a piece of paper. “For your eyes only. Commit it to memory and burn it. Now get out of my sight.” He smirked. “And good luck.”

I gave him a nod and a grunt, since his attitude didn’t warrant more than that.

The address took me outside of the city. My first thought was that the commute was going to be a pain, but then I remembered the clause in the contract that said it was a live-in position. The client needed me on the job twenty-four-seven. If this worked out, I could give up the apartment and keep the rent money. As I stopped in front of a massive gate, I shook my head at my premature thoughts. It was never a good idea to get ahead of myself.

I found myself in front of a gated estate, and I had to push a button and wait for a crackling voice on the other end tointerrogate me before letting me in. Apparently, my new client took his security very seriously. He was waiting for me in front of his impressive mansion. As I got out of my truck, he didn’t make any move toward me. He waited for me to walk over to him and didn’t look like he would shake my hand if I offered.

Also, he was human.

“Mason Stonewarden,” he said in a rather blasé voice.

“Yes, that’s me. I’m your new bodyguard.”

“I’m Dr. Vincent Lockwood. Please follow me.”

This guy wasn’t friendly at all. He was tall and lean – tall for his kind, at least – with dark hair that was neatly combed away from his large forehead. He wore glasses that he often pushed up the bridge of his nose, and a white lab coat over his dark, perfectly ironed clothes. He was all business.

I wondered what kind of doctor he was. My job, however, wasn’t to ask questions, but to follow orders. In my line of work, some clients I had to know inside out to be able to protect, and other clients I didn’t have to know at all. Dr. Vincent Lockwood fell into the second category.

On the inside, the mansion was even more impressive than on the outside. Immediately, I could tell that it belonged to a family that came from money, generation after generation. It was decorated in a gaudy way that somehow didn’t lack taste completely. We crossed the entry hall, then Dr. Lockwood led me through a set of corridors until we reached the back of the house. He didn’t invite me into any of the rooms on the first floor, and frankly, I was a little disappointed. I would’ve loved to see what the living room looked like, and I was sure there was a library, too, and maybe a game room. These types of mansions always had it all.

Next, he led me down a set of stairs, and the more we descended beneath the house, the more uneasy I felt. Finally, we reached a chamber that was dark and humid, entirely madeof stone and cement. This was the basement. Instead of wine racks filled with old, fancy bottles, there was a bed in a corner, a desk, and a chair. There were two doors, one on the left, one on the right. The one on the left was open, and I glimpsed a rudimentary bathroom. The one on the right was closed.

“This is you,” Dr. Lockwood said.

I stared at him like he was speaking an alien language.

“This is your post. You have a mini fridge over there.” Right, I hadn’t noticed the fridge. It was that mini. “I will make sure you have everything you need, of course. I will have food delivered, any drinks of choice, no alcohol.”

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