𝔸s always, Sable’s smile didn’t waver as he carefully swivelled to face Anonymous over the desk. “Oh, I don’t think Bolt would take me for a pet even if I asked nicely. And I’m sure you’ll get your exciting violence soon, the weekend is coming up after all.” Even the magical community were not immune to the lure of the Friday night pub crawl and its attendant dangers.
Sitting up halfway straight, he shuffled some forms in a semi-businesslike manner and idly ticked a few boxes. They were all pointless claims by felons who felt mishandled or complaints by shopkeepers who felt he hadn’t needed to do as much collateral damage while ‘apprehending a suspect’ on their property. Within moments, his attention wandered off the paperwork returned to his partner. “So, get up to anything scandalously rebellious recently? Or read any really riveting books? I can never quite tell which is more likely from day to day.”
“I bought some new bodice-rippers at the weekend,” Anonymous answered, thinking of the stacks of sketchy paperbacks on her bedside table, pages yellowed with age. “60s ones. A real blast from the past.”
She thought of the gig she’d attended last night on a whim, having adopted the body of a Sid Vicious wannabe, safety-pin earrings and all. Her mohawk had towered over the crowd like a floor brush held upside down. If she remembered correctly, she’d gone shirtless. Had she faked any tattoos?
The thought of it alone made Anonymous shake her head, wheeling herself over to the filing cabinet as if to bury yesterday’s cringe in sorting duties. They were already colour-coded and alphabetised. “Nothing much interesting going on, though,” she said breezily. “How about you?”
“Well, there was a smarmy young ladder climber I had an expensive dinner with a few days ago, he had quite the charming smile. A little too self satisfied for my tastes though, so I left him with the bill and some explaining to do. His hand apparently slipped and he emptied his cocktail all over a waiter’s crotch.” Inevitably, Sable’s own smirk was as smug as they come, clearly reliving his petty victory. It was hardly mature or becoming for a century old sorcerer to use his powers to mess with a twenty-something mortal though Sable had never allowed the opinions of others to stop him having a good time.
The man in question had a tried very hard to out-do him at, well, being Sable. He’d worn a nice suit, used a kind of charm that was part seduction and part condescension, grinned at anything remotely attractive and deployed winks indiscriminately. It had been a matter of honour to take him down a couple of pegs. Still, Sable reflected, he was also good looking and fairly charming, as pale imitations go. Perhaps in a week or two, when the younger man had seethed a little, he’d drop him a line. Sleeping with a younger version of yourself would probably be called narcissistic, but that word had been thrown at Sable too many times to have much bite.
Anonymous didn’t get the fine dining experience. Perhaps it was her eternally frugal living, but as far as she was concerned, taking the bloke to McDonald’s would have been a fair substitute.
Just as she was about to repeat it out loud––if only to scandalise Sable––the office door swung open. In strutted Leander Spice, papers in hand. It was somewhat pleasing to see him doing something as mundane as dropping off a message.
“Jones, Mock. Case for you,” he said gruffly. Anonymous swore that she could see the internal dilemma in his eyes: which one of them did he like the most, or rather, which one did he dislike the least? In the end, he deposited them on Sable’s desk, which she assumed was for the purely pragmatic reason of it being closer to the door. “I’d just love to stay and chat, but duty calls. Have fun with yours.”
Anonymous greeted Spice with a snarky, “Good morning to you too,” as he swiftly departed as if he’d never been there at all. When she had initially started working for the Sanctuary, there had been an incident which involved a glass of water being spilt on the other detective. Deliberately, and not so much ‘spilled’ as ‘thrown’.
But that was all water under the bridge.
“What have we got?” she asked Mock, scooting back over to her desk.
Sable flipped open the file and his eyes took in a hastily scribbled report, some names and a photo. Moving to the second page, he detached the first and handed it over the desk to his partner.
“Something’s been stolen from the archives, an artefact called ‘The Chalice of Shattered Faith’, and the archivist suspects it may have been gone for several days.”
The Chalice’s image showed nothing but a rather humble looking wooden cup, its edges stained a faded red. As a part of their report, the Archivist seemed to have deemed it important to list a brief history of the object as well as its supposed powers. Driving men mad, the summoning of old gods, the creation of abominations… the things got more uses than a penknife. For better or worse, none of them had yet been confirmed by the Sanctuary’s studious archivist.
Handing over the rest of the file, Sable stood up. “Well, I think there’s only one course of action; we have a chat with this…” he checked the report “Omnibus Woe. She’s both the prime suspect and the person most likely to know who took it. You can read up on the thing’s history on the way.”
Sitting up halfway straight, he shuffled some forms in a semi-businesslike manner and idly ticked a few boxes. They were all pointless claims by felons who felt mishandled or complaints by shopkeepers who felt he hadn’t needed to do as much collateral damage while ‘apprehending a suspect’ on their property. Within moments, his attention wandered off the paperwork returned to his partner. “So, get up to anything scandalously rebellious recently? Or read any really riveting books? I can never quite tell which is more likely from day to day.”
“I bought some new bodice-rippers at the weekend,” Anonymous answered, thinking of the stacks of sketchy paperbacks on her bedside table, pages yellowed with age. “60s ones. A real blast from the past.”
She thought of the gig she’d attended last night on a whim, having adopted the body of a Sid Vicious wannabe, safety-pin earrings and all. Her mohawk had towered over the crowd like a floor brush held upside down. If she remembered correctly, she’d gone shirtless. Had she faked any tattoos?
The thought of it alone made Anonymous shake her head, wheeling herself over to the filing cabinet as if to bury yesterday’s cringe in sorting duties. They were already colour-coded and alphabetised. “Nothing much interesting going on, though,” she said breezily. “How about you?”
“Well, there was a smarmy young ladder climber I had an expensive dinner with a few days ago, he had quite the charming smile. A little too self satisfied for my tastes though, so I left him with the bill and some explaining to do. His hand apparently slipped and he emptied his cocktail all over a waiter’s crotch.” Inevitably, Sable’s own smirk was as smug as they come, clearly reliving his petty victory. It was hardly mature or becoming for a century old sorcerer to use his powers to mess with a twenty-something mortal though Sable had never allowed the opinions of others to stop him having a good time.
The man in question had a tried very hard to out-do him at, well, being Sable. He’d worn a nice suit, used a kind of charm that was part seduction and part condescension, grinned at anything remotely attractive and deployed winks indiscriminately. It had been a matter of honour to take him down a couple of pegs. Still, Sable reflected, he was also good looking and fairly charming, as pale imitations go. Perhaps in a week or two, when the younger man had seethed a little, he’d drop him a line. Sleeping with a younger version of yourself would probably be called narcissistic, but that word had been thrown at Sable too many times to have much bite.
Anonymous didn’t get the fine dining experience. Perhaps it was her eternally frugal living, but as far as she was concerned, taking the bloke to McDonald’s would have been a fair substitute.
Just as she was about to repeat it out loud––if only to scandalise Sable––the office door swung open. In strutted Leander Spice, papers in hand. It was somewhat pleasing to see him doing something as mundane as dropping off a message.
“Jones, Mock. Case for you,” he said gruffly. Anonymous swore that she could see the internal dilemma in his eyes: which one of them did he like the most, or rather, which one did he dislike the least? In the end, he deposited them on Sable’s desk, which she assumed was for the purely pragmatic reason of it being closer to the door. “I’d just love to stay and chat, but duty calls. Have fun with yours.”
Anonymous greeted Spice with a snarky, “Good morning to you too,” as he swiftly departed as if he’d never been there at all. When she had initially started working for the Sanctuary, there had been an incident which involved a glass of water being spilt on the other detective. Deliberately, and not so much ‘spilled’ as ‘thrown’.
But that was all water under the bridge.
“What have we got?” she asked Mock, scooting back over to her desk.
Sable flipped open the file and his eyes took in a hastily scribbled report, some names and a photo. Moving to the second page, he detached the first and handed it over the desk to his partner.
“Something’s been stolen from the archives, an artefact called ‘The Chalice of Shattered Faith’, and the archivist suspects it may have been gone for several days.”
The Chalice’s image showed nothing but a rather humble looking wooden cup, its edges stained a faded red. As a part of their report, the Archivist seemed to have deemed it important to list a brief history of the object as well as its supposed powers. Driving men mad, the summoning of old gods, the creation of abominations… the things got more uses than a penknife. For better or worse, none of them had yet been confirmed by the Sanctuary’s studious archivist.
Handing over the rest of the file, Sable stood up. “Well, I think there’s only one course of action; we have a chat with this…” he checked the report “Omnibus Woe. She’s both the prime suspect and the person most likely to know who took it. You can read up on the thing’s history on the way.”
