“Marcus Tenneson.”
Ophelia’s father looked precisely like the picture he’d seen online. Eerily so. Down to the finest detail of his salt and pepper goatee. Marcus had been eased with a surprising amount of care into a comfortable low back chair facing a massive grand oak desk. Were it not for the fact that zipties dug into his wrists, he might think they were about to have a cordial conversation.
“I’ve been reading about you.” The man walked around the desk, snifter glass in hand with a dark amber liquid in it. He sat down in a black leather chair and patted a closed folder that clearly had his name printed across the top of it.
“I’m not clear on exactly what’s happening here.” Marcus admitted. “You’re Ophelia’s father, right? And…something to do with the Arcanex thugs downstairs?”
“Walter Harris.”
His head was still a little fuzzy, but something rang a bell. Something in the name sent chills down his spine.
“And as of a few weeks ago, I am primary shareholder and CEO of Arcanex Magitech Corporation.”
“Explains the goons, I guess.” Marcus quipped at him, though half-heartedly. His brain was still racing, and he was starting to feel like a real idiot until it finally clicked. Walter Harris. W.H. Images of the initials phased through his mind in quick succession.
The door handles
The website
The NDA
The griffon contract
W.H.
Marcus’ eyes narrowed as he looked back up at the man, casually reading whatever paperwork was in his folder while he sipped at his whiskey. “You buy a company and it gives you permission to tie somebody up against their will? And what’s with scaring the shit out of your daughter? That a British thing?”
Walter ignored his prodding, instead holding up a sheet of paper. “Atticus. That’s a strong name.” He finished off his glass and walked over to a roll-away bar to pour himself another. The elder man swirled the liquid for a long time, sniffed at it, then finally glanced over at him. “Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.” Marcus bit down on his cheek. Stay cool. He knew this play. He was circling him like a thorncoil with its spiny tail. Posturing for dominance.
Walter smirked and his head tilted in a casual, unbothered motion before moving in front of Marcus and leaned against the desk. He maintained eye with him for an uncomfortable amount of time before glancing past him. “Release the restraints.”
The click of a pocket knife opening behind him sounded, and the tight restraints popped, letting his shoulders relax as his arms fell to his sides. He glanced over his shoulder at the soldier already retreating back toward the elevator, then back to Walter.
“What do you want?”
Mr. Harris raised an eyebrow at him, but instead of answering the question, he reached behind him and grabbed the folder. When the manila envelope, and then the clear sleeve were produced, he didn’t need to be told what the document was.
“Do you know what my favorite bit of these contracts always is?” Walter asked but didn’t bother to give Marcus time to answer. “It’s the sheer detail that they go into while still managing to sound horribly boring. Like this…” He took a quick sip from his glass, then cleared his throat as he read from the page. “The Bound Party, that’s you for the record, shall be permanently and irrevocably prohibited from enter, working within, consulting for, volunteering at, or otherwise accessing any magical wildlife reserve, sanctuary, conservation facility, or other similar institution, whether publicly or privately operated, within any jurisdiction magical or mundane.”
Marcus fought the urge to roll his eyes, though his jaw visibly shook as he ground his teeth. He could envision springing off the chair, shoulder into his sternum. They’d be over the other side of the desk before the guard could do anything. He’d be able to get a few good licks in before he got shot, at least.
“Oh, I quite like this bit too.” He picked up his snifter and walked around to sit in his chair before continuing. “The Bound Party, again, that’s you if it wasn’t clear, may experience mild discomfort, warmth, or involuntary muscle response when formulating thoughts that approach the boundaries of prohibited disclosure. The Corporation advises the Bound Party to treat the sensation as helpful guidance rather than provocation.”
“Listen, Mr. Harris. You’re Ophelia’s father, so I’m willing to offer a little respect here.” He adjusted slightly in his seat and gave a pained smile. “You’re making it really difficult, though. So do me a favor and get to the fucking point.”
“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.” Walter turned the paper toward him and tapped Marcus’ signature. “Signed, Marcus Atticus Tenneson. The reading was just a little reminder, Mr. Tenneson. I want nothing more to believe that you flew all the way up here just to see my sweet darling Ophelia. Not because I believe someone…like you…is good enough for her affections, but that I can simply put you back on a plane and send you to whatever shithole you’ve crawled from.”
“Wow...” Marcus sucked on his teeth, looking up at the ceiling of the room. The smooth, fluid way that insults drifted off his tongue made his skin crawl. There was no malice in it all, the man really just believed everything he said and expected him to accept it as truth. “You’re a real winner, aren’t you? Are we done?”
“No, I’m going to give you a bit of friendly advice, Mr. Tenneson.” Walter sipped from his snifter again, putting his feet up on the corner of his desk. “First, you should go by Atticus. Marcus feels quite…brutish.” He curled his lip like he’d smelled something bad. “Second, when I let you leave this building today. Forget Arcanex exists. Forget your reserve exists. Most importantly, forget my daughter exists. In fact, I will purchase you a first-class ticket to any place in the world, so long as it’s at least five thousand miles from this spot.”
Marcus looked down at his feet for a moment, wetting his bottom lip as he took a moment to really consider what he was about to say to this rich, powerful, elitist bastard. When he looked up, any carefully crafted sentence that he may have thought of vanished. “You can take that ticket…” Marcus leaned forward in his chair, his head and shoulders encroaching on the desk space. “And shove it right up your ass, you pompous fuck.”
Walter tilted his head, but his expression didn’t change. “So, I take it your little outburst means you won’t be taking my advice?”
Marcus stood up and patted his desk. “I’ll see you around, Walt.” He turned and walked toward the elevator door.
He made it a couple of steps before a few words in Latin oozed through Walter Harris’ unimpressed tone and a semitransparent golden wall of magic manifested in front of him. Marcus closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, uncertain what was to come, but positive he would not like it.
“A parting anecdote for you, Marcus.”
Neither man moved, the voice behind him still clearly lounged back in the thick leather office chair.
“Your parents are considered a pair of war heroes.” Walter paused a moment before the clink of snifter on glass coaster preceded the story. “I was stationed in the north of Sudan a contingent of Ascendant Veil witches came down on my unit riding domesticated Heracles scorpions. We were pinned. A few of the witches and wizards with us attempted to escape, only to meet the business end of the aforementioned scorpions.”
“I’m guessing there is going to be some kind of point to this story.” Marcus said, finally glancing over his shoulder at the man.
“Patience, Attic—excuse me, Marcus.” Walter dropped his feet from the desk and turned to face him. “You’re dear parent swooped in and distracted the Ascendant Veil and their scorpions long enough for my unit to exfiltrate. Even killed quite a few of them, at the expense of your father getting opened up from navel to throat if I recall correctly?”
Marcus shook his head. “I’ve heard the story before. You being there doesn’t give it anymore meaning.”
“Ahh.” Walter looked down into the amber fluid as he tapped his glass on the desk. “But it does. You see, I’m something of a wizard myself, and the deserts of Northern Africa held a plethora of secrets. With a bit of patience, I could have excised the problem silently and completely. The chaotic mess that your parents caused worked, so no harm, no foul, but I put it to you, Mr. Tenneson…why would you use a hammer for a job that requires a scalpel?”
Marcus stared at the man for a quiet moment before giving him a defiant shrug. “Sounds like you were bested by a couple of Tennesons and you’re butt hurt about it.”
A slow smile crawled across Walter’s lips as he leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps Marcus does suit you.” He waved a hand, and the golden wall blocking Marcus’ path dissolved to a fine dust.
On the outside, he kept his cool. Pace even and steady, head held high and forward. There would be time to shit his pants later. Right now, he needed to remain calm. The guard pressed the elevator button for him, and when it opened, they both stepped inside. The guard hit the button for the ground floor, a subtle but recognizable message saying that he was not going to decide where he went. Not yet.
The guard waited at the door after escorting him out of the building. He took a few steps out toward the road. The light drizzle from the gray London sky had stopped, though darker clouds threatened the horizon. He looked up to scan the windows and balconies, looking for any sign of Ophelia.
No luck.
He tried to call, but the phone went straight to voicemail. It wouldn’t have surprised him if they’d confiscated it before she’d even been able to activate it.
Marcus crossed the street and stared at the unassuming building for a long time as he debated what to do next. On one hand, there was an unknown amount of blightshrews doing untold amounts of damage to London infrastructure. On the other, Ophelia was in this building, and he needed to make sure she was okay. Surely her father wouldn’t hurt her. Even if he was a pompous prick, she’d always spoken highly of him, and he seemed to care about her. Marcus pursed his lips and scanned the windows again for any hint of her.
A flicker of movement at the corner of the reception caught his eye. Someone in all black. He shifted his jaw a couple of times, then started to walk. Where didn’t matter. He was being followed, and whatever he was going to do, a tail was not going to be helpful.
We’ve got advantages over you, son. You need to be smarter. Stronger. Faster. You don’t wait for them to catch up. Not ever. You stay a step ahead.
His father’s words from his childhood had become something of a mantra throughout his life. At the time he’d been referring to his siblings and pupils, but as Marcus got older, he found it applied in pretty much every aspect of his life. With armed thugs on his ass, it was especially true.
London streets were busy. Hordes strolled idly outside shops, umbrellas under their arms, occasionally ducking in or out of them. He still had that tingle in the back of his neck as he mingled within them. He was still being watched. Marcus slid into the next shop he walked by. As luck would have it, a clothing store. A list formed in his mind. Backpack, jeans, t-shirt, beanie. He collected the things quickly, one eye always on the door.
“You have some place I can change? It was a long flight and I haven’t checked into my hotel yet.” Marcus swiped his card at the register. The young man behind the counter told him to use the bathroom in the back, but to keep his receipt on him so security didn’t give him a hard time.
Marcus was halfway into his new jeans when the handle on the bathroom door flashed a light pink color from the keyhole. “Fuck.”
The door had opened and closed faster than he could swing, leaving his fist colliding with cold metal. A blur of dark clothing and whipping hair was already behind him, pinning him to the door. Hot, heavy breath slid down his neck, smelling of sweat, cigarette smoke, and sandalwood.