Yet more fic dumpage.
Oct. 29th, 2007 01:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mad_andyTo Guildford, and beyond.
Arriving at Heathrow they breezed through passport control and soon found themselves prowling through the long stay car parks looking for a suitable vehicle.
“This is stealing, Yoz.”
“Yup. That's why I'm looking for one whose owner isn't coming back.”
Alan decided not to ask. Once she had selected one and broken into it with an ease that bespoke a certain level of practice, he finally asked her where they were actually going.
“We've got to go and see a friend of mine.”
“Where?”
“Guildford.”
“Guildford?”
“Why, where did you expect me to say?”
“Well…the British Library in London, to be honest.”
“Nah. They've got all the straight stuff there; you want the real esoterica you need to go somewhere a little different. And who would think of a large commuter town just beyond London?”
“Not me, that's for sure.”
“Exactly. Come on, I'll drive.”
Alan fervently hoped he would never have to endure a repeat of Yoz' drive out to Guildford from Heathrow. Not a long way, to be sure; but her driving left a lot to be desired. Cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, she scrunched down in the driver's seat and scowled out at the other traffic as she wove through it at speed, white knuckled and growling curses.
Effectively abandoning the car in a narrow street outside a crumbling sixteenth century building close to the ruins of the abbey, Yoz climbed out and leaned on the roof of the car while she watched Alan scramble out his side and lean on the side of the car for a moment, head down and panting for breath.
“I said you were hyperventilating.”
“The way you fucking drive -”
“Yeah, well, I'm out of practice aren't I?”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” was all he could manage to reply, through gritted teeth.
She let him pant and swear for a while before flicking her cigarette butt into the gutter and tutting impatiently.
“Are you going to stand there and curse, or are you coming in?”
Shaking his long brown mane in a combination of disbelief and disgust, he rather unsteadily walked around to join her.
“Lead on.”
Ducking through a low doorway, they found themselves in a dimly lit hallway; oak panelling dully reflected the light of small electric lamps set into the walls, and the musty smell of rooms closed off for years pervaded the dry atmosphere. Alan wrinkled his nose.
“What is this place?”
“Seat of mystical learning for the last four hundred years in this sceptred isle. You, my friend, are one of very, very few outsiders ever to set foot inside the headquarters of the Rosicrucian Order, UK branch. Except for the milkman and the lad who delivers the papers.”
“It stinks.”
“Philistine,” she chuckled cheerfully, as a tall, cadaverous looking elderly man emerged from behind a heavy curtain to greet them at the old fashioned counter. She propped herself on it on one elbow as one would at a bar, grinning cheerfully at the individual glaring down his nose at her.
“Wotcha Igor.”
He pulled his heavy brows together and curled his lip in disgust as he regarded the small woman before him, showing long yellow teeth as he did so.
“You again,” he growled in disgust in a heavily accented voice. Alan wasn't sure where the guy came from, but somewhere in Eastern Europe was a pretty fair bet. “I thought you would have been dead by now. I had hoped.”
“Nope,” she replied, maintaining her madly cheerful grin. “Still here. Need the library.”
“You are not an initiate.”
“You noticed. Shit, Igor, you're getting brighter.”
He just drew himself up tighter and higher, like a hunting heron, and stared even harder down his nose at her. “You may not -”
“Ring the boss. Go on. Ask him. You won't half be in the shit if he finds out you've turned me away, and you know it. Don't you?” she gave a decidedly nasty smile; Alan winced at the sight of it. Yoz was really going for this guy; he certainly wouldn't have liked to be on the receiving end of it.
“He does not have time…”
“I know. So are you gonna take the risk, or let me in? Hell of a thing, this decision making process; you’re going to be in the kakky with someone no matter what you decide. Question is, whose shit list do you least want to be on?”
Alan tried not to fidget. He had a sense of forces at work here; as if the two people before him played this game because to do otherwise, to release the energies humming between them, might shred the very fabric of the building, or even of all reality. With Yoz, you never could tell; and God alone knew about the other guy. So he stood very, very still, and hoped that neither would notice him beyond the abstract.
“Only you. Not him.” Yellowing eyes flicked across at the Scot in disgust, and Alan winced. Damn.
“Sorry Igor. Both or nothing.”
“It is forbidden.”
“I know. Nevertheless, we are coming in.”
The older man was beginning to look agitated. His pale cheeks were beginning to show a touch of colour, and his hands were beginning to tremble.
“But he is an outsider!”
“Not in this case, pal.”
Alan was almost beginning to feel sorry for the guy.
“Tell you what,” and Yoz' voice was conspiratorial, although she still wasn't giving an inch, “you can tell the boss I now owe him one. How would that sit with you, hmmm?”
“Not the man.”
“'Fraid so.”
“Absolutely not possible. No.”
Yoz was clearly begin to lose patience with the stubborn older man. “Or I could turn this place into a smoking hole in the ground?”
Igor went red, then white, clearly aghast - and angered - at what the small woman was saying.
“Your choice, Igor.”
With a slashing movement of his hand the old man gestured towards one of the heavy oak doors, then stamped off behind a curtain. His footsteps could be heard disappearing into the distance along the stone flagged floor, accompanied by deeply grumbled cursing that eventually also faded. There was a distant slam of a door, then silence. Yoz turned to Alan with a grin.
“I do believe you're in, my dear.”
“Is that good?”
“It's unusual. I didn't think old Igor was going to give in, then.”
They began to move toward the indicated door. Alan shook his head. “Maybe it was you threatening to blow up the building that did it?”
“Nah,” she laughed cheerfully, applying her shoulder to the oak door that looked so old and dark it could have been fossilised, “he knows I wouldn't do that. What worries him is that I could. He doesn't like me much…”
“Y'think?”
She snorted happily. Alan shook his head, reflecting ruefully that he had thrown in his lot with a woman who appeared to get her kicks from bullying defenceless old men…
“And don't go making that mistake. Harmless he ain't.” She led him along a narrow, musty corridor.
“What?”
“Igor. He's lethal; once upon a time he was an assassin, the best. He could still kill you in a thousand different ways, and the pathologist would bet their life that you'd karked it of natural causes.” A turn, a flight of steps, so old that the stone they were composed of had formed deep, smooth grooves along the centre of the tread, fragments of mica glittering within the time worn granite.
“No…”
“Yup. And never mind the physical; he could boil your brains in your skull with a word.” Another twist in the corridor, a sideslip behind a tapestry. Alan was lost.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.” She snorted again, apparently unbothered by his previously somewhat uncharitable thoughts. “Ah, here we are. Welcome to the best library of forbidden and dangerous knowledge outside of the Vatican…”
They had entered a large hall with an enormously high barrel vaulted ceiling, clearly the heart of the building; the panels between the massive timbers were painted in a style that suggested, to Alan's untutored eye, something medieval. The figures and patterns were faded shades of pastel and chipped gilt that had once obviously shone with gold; there was a simple sweetness of form and colour that spoke of a different time, and different motivations in the hearts of the artists than the love of money. Hymns to God and paeans of praise to the spiritual world and all of creation decorated the spaces, natural shades and curling forms, faces and details that he could have studied for hours and never looked upon the same area twice.
“It's beautiful,” he commented quietly, letting his eyes roam across the carvings and paintings high above him before scanning down to the tattered banners lining the walls, clinging to their worn poles seemingly more by stubbornness and pride than stoutness of fabric. Below them were lined rack upon rack upon rack of heavy bookshelves which were themselves filled with weighty tomes; many individual books sprawled elegantly open upon carved lecterns, heavily chained and with cast clasps suggestive more of wild beasts than captive paper.
“Well,” laughed a woman's voice from behind him, “you can bring this one again, Yoz. He thinks my library is beautiful!”
“As it is,” smiled the Magus, slowly turning to face the owner of the voice, “although as usual I had to scrap to get in here.”
“Have you been winding dear Christophe up again?” Alan had turned now, and beheld the woman who had spoken. A little taller and more lightly built than Yoz, dark wavy hair falling softly to her shoulders and brown eyes alight with mischief in a friendly, rounded face. She smiled broadly and offered a strong, slim hand to him. “Hello. I'm Moira, head librarian of the collection here. Pleased to meet you.”
He took the offered hand and shook it, pleasantly surprised at the firmness of her grip. “Hey. Alan Bannister.”
“Guitarist with Blackheart Mountain, right?”
“Aye, that's me.”
“Ah. I know Yoz has always had a soft spot for the band…”
“Oh aye?” And he turned to face her, one eyebrow cocked querulously.
Yoz groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Moi…”
She laughed quietly. “Now that I've embarrassed our friend here, perhaps you can tell me what you need. Because, fond as I am of her, I know she doesn't bully her way in here unless she wants something pretty bloody badly.”
“I'll say,” grinned Yoz, unrepentant.
Moira rolled her eyes and beckoned them to follow her. “Come on. My office is just over here; I'll stick the kettle on and you can fill me in on your latest adventures.”
“I love this woman,” sighed Yoz happily as she passed Alan, in the wake of her friend, “she shoves a mug of tea into your hand as you arrive and retrieves it as you leave. She's marvellous.”
Shaking his head, the tall Scot followed them between the gloomy stacks.
The office they finally arrived in was cheerful, if chaotic and crowded. A high ceiling and arched window looked down upon an L-shape of two heavy desks and a collection of elderly, overstuffed chairs; a computer fought for space with piles of paper, the occasional video, and an ailing pot plant on one desk. The other desk was almost invisible under its load of heavy tomes, scattered printouts, and the odd map. Some of them very odd, Alan noticed as he glanced at them briefly.
A small table in the corner held an assortment of mugs, tins labelled 'tea', 'coffee', and 'herbal'; the smallest fridge he had ever seen hummed briskly from under it and a kettle lurked on the edge, saved from the drop only by the tenacious grip its flex had on the wall plug. Moira waved her visitors to two of the least heaped up chairs - only small piles of paper to shift to the floor - and busied herself in the corner preparing the drinks. Alan took the opportunity to look around at the impressive space, and marvel at the sheer amount of stuff jammed into it; Yoz tried to sneak peeks at the paperwork.
“So,” grinned their host as she settled into her computer chair, the only modern piece of furniture in the room, “give. And leave nothing out; I love to hear all about your adventures.”
“Are you sure?” asked Alan, eyebrows raised again.
“She's tougher than she looks,” growled Yoz in amusement, bringing a pleased smile to the face of her friend.
Yoz began to speak. Having heard the whole sorry story, Alan found himself watching Moira's face; emotions flickered across it as she became engrossed in her friend's tale. Hardly surprising, really; he soon found himself getting caught up in it, too. The Magus was a born storyteller; there was a leap and spring to her language that brought the events to life, and pulled the listener in as though they had been a watcher from the sidelines. She used her hands to sketch shapes in the air that emphasised or counterpointed her words; rolled her eyes and shook her hair, pulled outrageous faces and changed her voice.
She neatly condensed, put it all in order, and unrolled it for them both; by the time she had finished Alan had a new perspective on the situation, and Moira knew exactly what Yoz needed.
The taller woman shook her head ruefully. “You certainly know how to pick 'em, girl.”
“I do. I do indeed.”
“I remember you telling me about Steve.” Her voice was soft with understanding, and Alan wondered if Yoz would have accepted that tone of voice from anyone else. Probably not, he decided. Shared experience and past history had bought the librarian the privilege of being able to comfort this complicated, fierce little woman.
“Aye, well. Shit happens.”
“It does, and if anyone should know that it’s you. Now,” and Moira's voice became brisk, “d'you want historical first, or current?”
“I wouldn't mind getting some history…?” Alan asked hesitantly. Moira smiled again at the handsome Scot, and slipped an arm through his.
“Then come with me. I have just the thing.” She swept away with him between the stacks, giving him little snippets of history as they passed each separate category. “Cathars. Poor buggers, the Templars helped take them out. Man, did they regret that a few years later…we've got a lot of their papers here, you know. Bits of the Bible that got excised -”
“What?”
“Bits that didn't fit in with the rampage of the Catholic Church across Europe,” she continued blithely, giving him a wicked grin and dragging him down another aisle, “so they chucked 'em out. We saved them. Very useful stuff to have kicking around if the Vatican gets uppity about us. Or we need a favour.”
“I can imagine,” he replied weakly.
Yoz trailed along behind, grinning as she listened to her friend giving Alan a swift history lesson on the role of the Church in past political intrigue; dressed as a series of off-colour tales about the behaviour of certain revered individuals. She never missed a chance to try and stir some sort of interest in the uninitiated; the soul of an inspirational teacher - with a dash of Indiana Jones - in the body of a librarian. Made a damn fine pot of tea, too.
Yoz slowed her pace slightly, the better to scan the tomes on the shelves around her; she would have cheerfully given her eye teeth to have spent a year or two just mooching around these stacks and leafing through the various volumes of arcane and forbidden knowledge.
“Keep up,” came the voice of her friend, hurrying her along. Yoz sighed. She owed Moi far, far too much to endanger their relationship by rifling the shelves at will. One day, though…
Chuckling to herself, Yoz caught up.
“Here we are. Vampires. In general or specific?”
“Eh?”
“The species,” Moira said patiently, “or Tiamat as an individual entity?”
“Um.”
“OK.” She turned to face the shelves. One of the things that the Magus admired so much about her librarian friend was the way that, for any researcher in any subject, she could find exactly the document they needed. It was a gift all of itself; she not only had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the items she cared for, but could relate them to each other and to any thread of research you could name.
Genius. Which was why, of course, the Order had recruited her.
“Try this one,” she said at length, selecting a slim, leather bound volume and handing it to Alan before ushering him to a reading table close by, “one of our operatives followed Tiamat out of the UK after…” she paused, flicking a glance at Yoz, “…after she last ran into you, hun.”
“Out of the country? I wondered where she went. Even though I was pretty well occupied with just keeping my head well down.”
“France, initially. Place up in the Pyrenees; she stopped on the way to wipe out the Paris house.”
Yoz winced, and laid a sympathetic hand on Moira's shoulder. “Damn. I heard about that, but I didn't realise it was her. I know your parents were there…it was a long time ago, but even so.”
“Yeah, well. This guy followed her and managed to ferret out a few more of her secrets, wrote it all in here.” She waved her hand at the journal Alan held. “We got it back from the Nice house; she tracked and killed him there, but she never got the journal.”
“Bloody hell,” said Alan, sitting down and regarding the book in his hands with a little alarm.
“But it's all in there. Yoz, I assume you're after something a little more technical?”
“Yeah. I know one of your lot nearly had her at the end of the seventeenth century…and wasn't there an American, about fifty years ago?”
“Yes to both,” replied Moira, pushing her glasses up her nose and frowning at the nearest stack, “the Samuel Blythe case. And the Rockford papers…let me see…” she turned to catch Alan's eye. “Are you alright here for a bit? This might take some time.”
“Sure.” The Scot gave her a million-megawatt smile, and she blushed before leading Yoz away around to another stack.
The Mage gave her friend a rather wolfish smile as she followed her around the shelves. “You like him, don't you?”
“Don't know what you're talking about,” replied the librarian quickly, blushing even more.
“Yeah, y'do.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Moi, how long has it been?”
“Do you want these papers or not?”
“Course I do. But you're my friend, and I worry about you; it's not good for a healthy young woman to go without.”
“My sex life is none of your business.”
“Correct. But that's why it's so interesting.”
Moira laughed. “I don't get involved with operatives. They're either too into politics or they don't come back.”
“Scientists?”
“Do me a favour.”
“Ah. Musicians?”
“Too unreliable.”
“Heh. Good point. What about -”
Moira stopped Yoz by handing her a thick book, smelling of age and leaking dust. Passing her another one, she smiled sadly at her friend.
“I'm alright. You don't need to worry about me; you should be more worried about yourself.”
“Why?”
“Oh, come on. Listening to you talk you're obviously crazy about this Pete; and you're more than fond of the others, too, aren't you?”
“Well. I suppose so.”
“Ha. Suppose. So you're going up against Tiamat to rescue what are, effectively, family?”
“Not exactly.”
“Lovers?”
“Somewhere in between.”
“What, all five?”
Yoz rolled her eyes. “No. Pete? Yes. Ian and Alan, sort of. Vic ditto. Andy is the big brother I never had. Clear?”
“Four lovers, then.”
“Moira…”
“There's a word for women like you,” said her friend with a grin.
“Yeah, impatient.”
“So did you have…” the librarian cocked her eyebrows at where Alan was sitting, deep in the text before him. Yoz turned away, but couldn't hide a wry little smile as the memories from the previous few nights replayed briefly in her mind. Moira shook her head while extracting a pile of papers from a case. “You did, didn't you.”
“It was medicinal.”
“What? How come I don't get prescriptions like that?”
“You don't have a five thousand year old vampire trying to steal away your friends, do you?”
“Good point.”
“You know what they say. Work hard, play hard.”
“Yoz, that’s disgusting.”
“Can I look at this lot now?” Yoz' voice was a little plaintive, as she was beginning to stagger under the weight of the books and papers her friend had piled in her arms.
“Sure,” and as they walked back to the table where Alan was sitting, Moira suddenly clicked her fingers.
“What?” And Yoz earned a glare from Alan and the few others in the library as she noisily dropped books and papers to the table, raising an explosive cloud of dust.
“Quietly, please. I just remembered something; there's a section in here on theoretical magic and alchemy, and one of the newest papers we've received deals with a new way to destroy incorruptible flesh.”
“Incorruptible - what, like Tiamat?”
“Let me check. It's in my office.” Moira clapped her friend on the shoulder. “You get started on that lot and I'll be back shortly.”
Yoz looked down at the substantial pile in front of her and sighed deeply.
“Best I get started, then.”
Indigo eyes twinkled at her from the other side of the table as her companion lilted lightly: “Yeah. And I bet I finish mine before you finish yours.”
She huffed out a breath as she sat down and opened the old book in front of her, smoothing the yellowing parchment gently with her fingers. “For once, my friend, I fear you may be right.”
Settling down to read, the soft silence of the library descended over all once more.
“Yoz?”
Deep in her study and chewing the end of a pencil, she ignored the light Highland lilt.
“Yoz.”
The voice was becoming insistent and irritating, like a bee trapped in a jar.
“Yoz!”
“Never mind her. I've seen this before, she might be here all night. Do you have somewhere to stay?”
Yoz straightened up at the sound of the second voice; or to be more precise, as soon as her nose detected the smell of the mug of tea her friend was carrying.
“Thanks, Moi. I am a bit dry.”
“It wakes!”
Yoz rolled her eyes at Alan even as her friend snorted in amusement at him.
“Yoz, it looks like this is going to take you a bit longer than you thought. Do you and Alan have anywhere to stay? I can give him a lift and pick him up in the morning, if you like.”
The Mage winked at her friend over the rim of her mug, and watched her blush. “Nah, I didn't think it would take me this long.” She cast her eyes over the papers strewn before her, and puffed out her cheeks in exasperation. “There's so much here. Most of it I've tried, some of it's insane…and all of it, so far, will get us all killed. Which sucks, quite frankly.”
“There is a reason she's still alive - well, undead - after five thousand years, you know.”
“Yeah, I'm beginning to figure that out. Did you find me that paper on the experimental alchemy?”
Her friend produced a slim monograph with a flourish. “Ta-daaaaa!”
Eyes lighting up she reached for it, only to collapse her expression into a fierce scowl when the librarian tucked it behind her back.
“Not until you sort Alan out. You dragged him all the way here, and you didn't even sort out somewhere to stay, did you?”
“There's always my room.”
“Not in here there isn't. It plays hell with the containment fields on some of the books.”
“Oh. Well. You'll be right then. Any ideas?” She gave a big, helpful smile to her friend, who just snorted and shook her head in despair.
“Well, there's always my quarters…”
“Yours? I didn't realise you lived in here.”
“I rented the flat out. Less hassle to stay here…closer to work, as it were. No commuting. Anyway, it's a two bedroom apartment, so if you like Alan could stay there; I know you'll be here all night, studying and poking your nose where it doesn't belong.”
Yoz rocked back in her chair, assuming a wide-eyed expression and pressing her hand to her heart in exaggerated shock. “Moira. You wound me.”
“Yeah, right. I know you, more like. So, if that's alright with you two?” She glanced across at Alan, who had been watching the banter with some amusement, with her eyebrows raised questioningly.
“Aye, fine by me.”
“And of course,” added Yoz smoothly, “you'll be close at hand…in case something comes up in the night.”
Alan laughed, and Moira rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Look, I'll get him settled in and then I'll come back and give you a hand for a few hours, is that OK with you?”
“Of course.”
“And no wandering off to poke about at random.”
“Who, me? Nah. Too bloody busy with this lot.”
“Right then,” she said firmly, and set off between the stacks. Alan moved to follow her, but Yoz caught his arm.
“She likes you. She's my friend.”
“Aye, I know.”
“So, do anything ungentlemanly and I'll have your kidneys for breakfast. Got it?”
“Aye.” He assumed a hurt expression. “Trust me.”
“Oh goddess. Go on, git. Or you'll lose her.”
Chuckling, he hurried off after the librarian, leaving Yoz to her own devices for a bit. She regarded the stack of books on the table in front of her with a gloomy sigh, then picked up the new monograph that Moira had left on top of the pile for her. Turning it over in her hands, she read the title and sighed again.
“I hope there's something new in here,” she said to herself quietly, “or we're all bloody doomed.” She smiled up into the dusty darkness above the stacks. “Again.”
Chuckling, she sat down and began to read.
Following the librarian, Alan took advantage of the opportunity to ogle the incredible building. He'd seen his share of old places; after all, the British Isles were littered with them. But he'd never seen one quite as…no, it wasn't the look, although that was part of it. It was the way it felt, he decided eventually. Most buildings this age seemed slightly affronted at their new livery of strip lights and nylon tufted carpet; even those preserved for the tourists in their original condition always seemed a little…indignant.
This place, however, felt comfortable. It was as though it opened one sleepy eye to watch the pair walking down the corridor, then lapsed back into its doze, content that things were as they should be. It felt…peaceful.
Alan, a man for whom peace had been an all too rare feeling in his life, released a long, long sigh he hadn't realised he was holding and slowed his stride to an amble, the better to enjoy it. Moira, beginning to get ahead of him, slowed to see what was wrong. Observing his expression she smiled warmly, her eyes softening.
“Quite a place, isn't it?”
“Sure is. Feels…I dunno. Peaceful, somehow.”
“It certainly seems to have a personality, doesn't it?” she smiled up at him, then
tucked her arm through his companionably. “Some of the operatives claim that it's to do with the fact that the building is still used for the purpose for which it was built. Others swear that all the psychic and alchemical experimentation that's gone on here have changed the very fabric of the building.” She chuckled. “And the really wild ones claim that it's alive.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. I suspect they're the ones closest to the truth, to be honest. But at the end of the day, it doesn't matter.”
“I guess not,” he replied, admiring the immense length of corridor before them, the sound of their feet muffled on the series of long runners along the centre, the wooden floor gleaming with polish where it was visible at the edges. The oil paintings and watercolours along the walls seemed to fit; the sculptures either on their pedestals or tucked into alcoves all appeared to belong. Even the occasional suit of armour, looking like it had seen hard use in its day rather than merely being a display item or museum piece, looked comfortable in its grand surroundings.
“Here we are,” said Moira after a while, turning into an alcove and unlocking one of the heavy oak doors in it, “'tis a small thing, but mine own.” She waved her guest into the small, cosy lounge while she pottered about putting side lamps on, then moving toward the kitchen. Alan perched on the edge of the arm of one of the comfortable two seat sofas, and looked around himself with interest.
“Nice place,” he said admiringly, looking up at the high, beamed ceiling and then wondering which of the heavy doors led to the bedroom. His or hers, didn't matter.
“Thanks,” said the librarian, sticking her head out of the doorway with a smile, “it's more than enough for me. All mod cons in there, TV, vid, DVD, computer, the lot. Two nice bedrooms, bathroom, fully equipped kitchen,” she shrugged, vanishing back to complete whatever she was doing, “and it doesn't cost me a bean.”
“Really?”
“The Order look after their own,” she finished, coming out of the kitchen and handing him a steaming mug of cocoa.
“Haven't had this for years,” he grinned, inhaling the scent.
“Is it OK? I can -”
“No, it's fine.” He sipped, and made a small exclamation of surprise. “Just right. How'd you know?”
“It's a knack.”
He shook his head ruefully. “I should have known that one of Yoz' friends would have mystical powers.”
“Even if they're a little more…domestic than hers?”
He looked up suddenly, for her tone had been sad. “I didn't mean -”
She flapped a hand at him and curled up in the enormous armchair that was obviously her favourite place. “No, it's OK. But I never used to be able to do anything like that. But the longer I've been involved here, known people like Yoz - and others - the more it seems to rub off.”
“There's others?”
“Oh yes. Many. Some of them are more dangerous than others, of course…but the ones that aren't actually part of the Order do odd jobs for us from time to time. That's when I come across them.”
“More like Yoz,” he took a sip of his cocoa then shook his head, “Jesus.”
“You better believe it,” giggled Moira, “and most of them are just flat out weirdos with no sense of humour. At least with her you can have a laugh.”
“Yeah. So,” and he took another sip, “how did you meet her? This is excellent, by the way.”
“Thanks. One of our operatives screwed up big time in his experiments; killed himself and everyone else in the house he was renting. A team from here had to go and sort it all out; I was taken along to try and salvage his papers, because the Order wastes nothing, you know.”
“I noticed.”
“Anyway, it was a big mess. Turns out the guy had inadvertently opened up a doorway to Hell, which is not a nice place; Yoz showed up and closed it. The Order looked after her here while she recovered -”
“Recovered?”
The librarian shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “It was quite a job. I got to know her while she was here.”
“Chasing her out of places she shouldn't have been.”
“That's the one. Anyway, I'd better head back down there, see if she's made any progress. Or buggered off to look at something more interesting.”
He nodded at her, beginning to feel the pressure of the last few days catching up.
Moira noticed the heaviness in his eyes and smiled fondly. “OK, bathroom there, bedroom that door there. There should be some pyjama bottoms in the chest of drawers that'll fit you; a friend of mine left them last time he stayed, but they're clean. Kitchen you know, help yourself. TV and whatnot ditto. Will you be alright?”
“I'll be fine. I'm guessin' wanderin' the halls would be a bad idea?”
“Ah…yeah. It would.”
“You get off then.” He walked across to where she was standing by the door to the flat, looking concerned. “I'll be fine.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and made his way to the door she'd indicated was to be his bedroom.
“Good night then,” she said softly, “don't wait up.”
“Night. I won't.” And he quietly closed the door behind him.
“Bugger,” muttered the librarian, and headed off to see what mischief her friend had gotten herself into.
Arriving at Heathrow they breezed through passport control and soon found themselves prowling through the long stay car parks looking for a suitable vehicle.
“This is stealing, Yoz.”
“Yup. That's why I'm looking for one whose owner isn't coming back.”
Alan decided not to ask. Once she had selected one and broken into it with an ease that bespoke a certain level of practice, he finally asked her where they were actually going.
“We've got to go and see a friend of mine.”
“Where?”
“Guildford.”
“Guildford?”
“Why, where did you expect me to say?”
“Well…the British Library in London, to be honest.”
“Nah. They've got all the straight stuff there; you want the real esoterica you need to go somewhere a little different. And who would think of a large commuter town just beyond London?”
“Not me, that's for sure.”
“Exactly. Come on, I'll drive.”
Alan fervently hoped he would never have to endure a repeat of Yoz' drive out to Guildford from Heathrow. Not a long way, to be sure; but her driving left a lot to be desired. Cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, she scrunched down in the driver's seat and scowled out at the other traffic as she wove through it at speed, white knuckled and growling curses.
Effectively abandoning the car in a narrow street outside a crumbling sixteenth century building close to the ruins of the abbey, Yoz climbed out and leaned on the roof of the car while she watched Alan scramble out his side and lean on the side of the car for a moment, head down and panting for breath.
“I said you were hyperventilating.”
“The way you fucking drive -”
“Yeah, well, I'm out of practice aren't I?”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” was all he could manage to reply, through gritted teeth.
She let him pant and swear for a while before flicking her cigarette butt into the gutter and tutting impatiently.
“Are you going to stand there and curse, or are you coming in?”
Shaking his long brown mane in a combination of disbelief and disgust, he rather unsteadily walked around to join her.
“Lead on.”
Ducking through a low doorway, they found themselves in a dimly lit hallway; oak panelling dully reflected the light of small electric lamps set into the walls, and the musty smell of rooms closed off for years pervaded the dry atmosphere. Alan wrinkled his nose.
“What is this place?”
“Seat of mystical learning for the last four hundred years in this sceptred isle. You, my friend, are one of very, very few outsiders ever to set foot inside the headquarters of the Rosicrucian Order, UK branch. Except for the milkman and the lad who delivers the papers.”
“It stinks.”
“Philistine,” she chuckled cheerfully, as a tall, cadaverous looking elderly man emerged from behind a heavy curtain to greet them at the old fashioned counter. She propped herself on it on one elbow as one would at a bar, grinning cheerfully at the individual glaring down his nose at her.
“Wotcha Igor.”
He pulled his heavy brows together and curled his lip in disgust as he regarded the small woman before him, showing long yellow teeth as he did so.
“You again,” he growled in disgust in a heavily accented voice. Alan wasn't sure where the guy came from, but somewhere in Eastern Europe was a pretty fair bet. “I thought you would have been dead by now. I had hoped.”
“Nope,” she replied, maintaining her madly cheerful grin. “Still here. Need the library.”
“You are not an initiate.”
“You noticed. Shit, Igor, you're getting brighter.”
He just drew himself up tighter and higher, like a hunting heron, and stared even harder down his nose at her. “You may not -”
“Ring the boss. Go on. Ask him. You won't half be in the shit if he finds out you've turned me away, and you know it. Don't you?” she gave a decidedly nasty smile; Alan winced at the sight of it. Yoz was really going for this guy; he certainly wouldn't have liked to be on the receiving end of it.
“He does not have time…”
“I know. So are you gonna take the risk, or let me in? Hell of a thing, this decision making process; you’re going to be in the kakky with someone no matter what you decide. Question is, whose shit list do you least want to be on?”
Alan tried not to fidget. He had a sense of forces at work here; as if the two people before him played this game because to do otherwise, to release the energies humming between them, might shred the very fabric of the building, or even of all reality. With Yoz, you never could tell; and God alone knew about the other guy. So he stood very, very still, and hoped that neither would notice him beyond the abstract.
“Only you. Not him.” Yellowing eyes flicked across at the Scot in disgust, and Alan winced. Damn.
“Sorry Igor. Both or nothing.”
“It is forbidden.”
“I know. Nevertheless, we are coming in.”
The older man was beginning to look agitated. His pale cheeks were beginning to show a touch of colour, and his hands were beginning to tremble.
“But he is an outsider!”
“Not in this case, pal.”
Alan was almost beginning to feel sorry for the guy.
“Tell you what,” and Yoz' voice was conspiratorial, although she still wasn't giving an inch, “you can tell the boss I now owe him one. How would that sit with you, hmmm?”
“Not the man.”
“'Fraid so.”
“Absolutely not possible. No.”
Yoz was clearly begin to lose patience with the stubborn older man. “Or I could turn this place into a smoking hole in the ground?”
Igor went red, then white, clearly aghast - and angered - at what the small woman was saying.
“Your choice, Igor.”
With a slashing movement of his hand the old man gestured towards one of the heavy oak doors, then stamped off behind a curtain. His footsteps could be heard disappearing into the distance along the stone flagged floor, accompanied by deeply grumbled cursing that eventually also faded. There was a distant slam of a door, then silence. Yoz turned to Alan with a grin.
“I do believe you're in, my dear.”
“Is that good?”
“It's unusual. I didn't think old Igor was going to give in, then.”
They began to move toward the indicated door. Alan shook his head. “Maybe it was you threatening to blow up the building that did it?”
“Nah,” she laughed cheerfully, applying her shoulder to the oak door that looked so old and dark it could have been fossilised, “he knows I wouldn't do that. What worries him is that I could. He doesn't like me much…”
“Y'think?”
She snorted happily. Alan shook his head, reflecting ruefully that he had thrown in his lot with a woman who appeared to get her kicks from bullying defenceless old men…
“And don't go making that mistake. Harmless he ain't.” She led him along a narrow, musty corridor.
“What?”
“Igor. He's lethal; once upon a time he was an assassin, the best. He could still kill you in a thousand different ways, and the pathologist would bet their life that you'd karked it of natural causes.” A turn, a flight of steps, so old that the stone they were composed of had formed deep, smooth grooves along the centre of the tread, fragments of mica glittering within the time worn granite.
“No…”
“Yup. And never mind the physical; he could boil your brains in your skull with a word.” Another twist in the corridor, a sideslip behind a tapestry. Alan was lost.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.” She snorted again, apparently unbothered by his previously somewhat uncharitable thoughts. “Ah, here we are. Welcome to the best library of forbidden and dangerous knowledge outside of the Vatican…”
They had entered a large hall with an enormously high barrel vaulted ceiling, clearly the heart of the building; the panels between the massive timbers were painted in a style that suggested, to Alan's untutored eye, something medieval. The figures and patterns were faded shades of pastel and chipped gilt that had once obviously shone with gold; there was a simple sweetness of form and colour that spoke of a different time, and different motivations in the hearts of the artists than the love of money. Hymns to God and paeans of praise to the spiritual world and all of creation decorated the spaces, natural shades and curling forms, faces and details that he could have studied for hours and never looked upon the same area twice.
“It's beautiful,” he commented quietly, letting his eyes roam across the carvings and paintings high above him before scanning down to the tattered banners lining the walls, clinging to their worn poles seemingly more by stubbornness and pride than stoutness of fabric. Below them were lined rack upon rack upon rack of heavy bookshelves which were themselves filled with weighty tomes; many individual books sprawled elegantly open upon carved lecterns, heavily chained and with cast clasps suggestive more of wild beasts than captive paper.
“Well,” laughed a woman's voice from behind him, “you can bring this one again, Yoz. He thinks my library is beautiful!”
“As it is,” smiled the Magus, slowly turning to face the owner of the voice, “although as usual I had to scrap to get in here.”
“Have you been winding dear Christophe up again?” Alan had turned now, and beheld the woman who had spoken. A little taller and more lightly built than Yoz, dark wavy hair falling softly to her shoulders and brown eyes alight with mischief in a friendly, rounded face. She smiled broadly and offered a strong, slim hand to him. “Hello. I'm Moira, head librarian of the collection here. Pleased to meet you.”
He took the offered hand and shook it, pleasantly surprised at the firmness of her grip. “Hey. Alan Bannister.”
“Guitarist with Blackheart Mountain, right?”
“Aye, that's me.”
“Ah. I know Yoz has always had a soft spot for the band…”
“Oh aye?” And he turned to face her, one eyebrow cocked querulously.
Yoz groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Moi…”
She laughed quietly. “Now that I've embarrassed our friend here, perhaps you can tell me what you need. Because, fond as I am of her, I know she doesn't bully her way in here unless she wants something pretty bloody badly.”
“I'll say,” grinned Yoz, unrepentant.
Moira rolled her eyes and beckoned them to follow her. “Come on. My office is just over here; I'll stick the kettle on and you can fill me in on your latest adventures.”
“I love this woman,” sighed Yoz happily as she passed Alan, in the wake of her friend, “she shoves a mug of tea into your hand as you arrive and retrieves it as you leave. She's marvellous.”
Shaking his head, the tall Scot followed them between the gloomy stacks.
The office they finally arrived in was cheerful, if chaotic and crowded. A high ceiling and arched window looked down upon an L-shape of two heavy desks and a collection of elderly, overstuffed chairs; a computer fought for space with piles of paper, the occasional video, and an ailing pot plant on one desk. The other desk was almost invisible under its load of heavy tomes, scattered printouts, and the odd map. Some of them very odd, Alan noticed as he glanced at them briefly.
A small table in the corner held an assortment of mugs, tins labelled 'tea', 'coffee', and 'herbal'; the smallest fridge he had ever seen hummed briskly from under it and a kettle lurked on the edge, saved from the drop only by the tenacious grip its flex had on the wall plug. Moira waved her visitors to two of the least heaped up chairs - only small piles of paper to shift to the floor - and busied herself in the corner preparing the drinks. Alan took the opportunity to look around at the impressive space, and marvel at the sheer amount of stuff jammed into it; Yoz tried to sneak peeks at the paperwork.
“So,” grinned their host as she settled into her computer chair, the only modern piece of furniture in the room, “give. And leave nothing out; I love to hear all about your adventures.”
“Are you sure?” asked Alan, eyebrows raised again.
“She's tougher than she looks,” growled Yoz in amusement, bringing a pleased smile to the face of her friend.
Yoz began to speak. Having heard the whole sorry story, Alan found himself watching Moira's face; emotions flickered across it as she became engrossed in her friend's tale. Hardly surprising, really; he soon found himself getting caught up in it, too. The Magus was a born storyteller; there was a leap and spring to her language that brought the events to life, and pulled the listener in as though they had been a watcher from the sidelines. She used her hands to sketch shapes in the air that emphasised or counterpointed her words; rolled her eyes and shook her hair, pulled outrageous faces and changed her voice.
She neatly condensed, put it all in order, and unrolled it for them both; by the time she had finished Alan had a new perspective on the situation, and Moira knew exactly what Yoz needed.
The taller woman shook her head ruefully. “You certainly know how to pick 'em, girl.”
“I do. I do indeed.”
“I remember you telling me about Steve.” Her voice was soft with understanding, and Alan wondered if Yoz would have accepted that tone of voice from anyone else. Probably not, he decided. Shared experience and past history had bought the librarian the privilege of being able to comfort this complicated, fierce little woman.
“Aye, well. Shit happens.”
“It does, and if anyone should know that it’s you. Now,” and Moira's voice became brisk, “d'you want historical first, or current?”
“I wouldn't mind getting some history…?” Alan asked hesitantly. Moira smiled again at the handsome Scot, and slipped an arm through his.
“Then come with me. I have just the thing.” She swept away with him between the stacks, giving him little snippets of history as they passed each separate category. “Cathars. Poor buggers, the Templars helped take them out. Man, did they regret that a few years later…we've got a lot of their papers here, you know. Bits of the Bible that got excised -”
“What?”
“Bits that didn't fit in with the rampage of the Catholic Church across Europe,” she continued blithely, giving him a wicked grin and dragging him down another aisle, “so they chucked 'em out. We saved them. Very useful stuff to have kicking around if the Vatican gets uppity about us. Or we need a favour.”
“I can imagine,” he replied weakly.
Yoz trailed along behind, grinning as she listened to her friend giving Alan a swift history lesson on the role of the Church in past political intrigue; dressed as a series of off-colour tales about the behaviour of certain revered individuals. She never missed a chance to try and stir some sort of interest in the uninitiated; the soul of an inspirational teacher - with a dash of Indiana Jones - in the body of a librarian. Made a damn fine pot of tea, too.
Yoz slowed her pace slightly, the better to scan the tomes on the shelves around her; she would have cheerfully given her eye teeth to have spent a year or two just mooching around these stacks and leafing through the various volumes of arcane and forbidden knowledge.
“Keep up,” came the voice of her friend, hurrying her along. Yoz sighed. She owed Moi far, far too much to endanger their relationship by rifling the shelves at will. One day, though…
Chuckling to herself, Yoz caught up.
“Here we are. Vampires. In general or specific?”
“Eh?”
“The species,” Moira said patiently, “or Tiamat as an individual entity?”
“Um.”
“OK.” She turned to face the shelves. One of the things that the Magus admired so much about her librarian friend was the way that, for any researcher in any subject, she could find exactly the document they needed. It was a gift all of itself; she not only had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the items she cared for, but could relate them to each other and to any thread of research you could name.
Genius. Which was why, of course, the Order had recruited her.
“Try this one,” she said at length, selecting a slim, leather bound volume and handing it to Alan before ushering him to a reading table close by, “one of our operatives followed Tiamat out of the UK after…” she paused, flicking a glance at Yoz, “…after she last ran into you, hun.”
“Out of the country? I wondered where she went. Even though I was pretty well occupied with just keeping my head well down.”
“France, initially. Place up in the Pyrenees; she stopped on the way to wipe out the Paris house.”
Yoz winced, and laid a sympathetic hand on Moira's shoulder. “Damn. I heard about that, but I didn't realise it was her. I know your parents were there…it was a long time ago, but even so.”
“Yeah, well. This guy followed her and managed to ferret out a few more of her secrets, wrote it all in here.” She waved her hand at the journal Alan held. “We got it back from the Nice house; she tracked and killed him there, but she never got the journal.”
“Bloody hell,” said Alan, sitting down and regarding the book in his hands with a little alarm.
“But it's all in there. Yoz, I assume you're after something a little more technical?”
“Yeah. I know one of your lot nearly had her at the end of the seventeenth century…and wasn't there an American, about fifty years ago?”
“Yes to both,” replied Moira, pushing her glasses up her nose and frowning at the nearest stack, “the Samuel Blythe case. And the Rockford papers…let me see…” she turned to catch Alan's eye. “Are you alright here for a bit? This might take some time.”
“Sure.” The Scot gave her a million-megawatt smile, and she blushed before leading Yoz away around to another stack.
The Mage gave her friend a rather wolfish smile as she followed her around the shelves. “You like him, don't you?”
“Don't know what you're talking about,” replied the librarian quickly, blushing even more.
“Yeah, y'do.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Moi, how long has it been?”
“Do you want these papers or not?”
“Course I do. But you're my friend, and I worry about you; it's not good for a healthy young woman to go without.”
“My sex life is none of your business.”
“Correct. But that's why it's so interesting.”
Moira laughed. “I don't get involved with operatives. They're either too into politics or they don't come back.”
“Scientists?”
“Do me a favour.”
“Ah. Musicians?”
“Too unreliable.”
“Heh. Good point. What about -”
Moira stopped Yoz by handing her a thick book, smelling of age and leaking dust. Passing her another one, she smiled sadly at her friend.
“I'm alright. You don't need to worry about me; you should be more worried about yourself.”
“Why?”
“Oh, come on. Listening to you talk you're obviously crazy about this Pete; and you're more than fond of the others, too, aren't you?”
“Well. I suppose so.”
“Ha. Suppose. So you're going up against Tiamat to rescue what are, effectively, family?”
“Not exactly.”
“Lovers?”
“Somewhere in between.”
“What, all five?”
Yoz rolled her eyes. “No. Pete? Yes. Ian and Alan, sort of. Vic ditto. Andy is the big brother I never had. Clear?”
“Four lovers, then.”
“Moira…”
“There's a word for women like you,” said her friend with a grin.
“Yeah, impatient.”
“So did you have…” the librarian cocked her eyebrows at where Alan was sitting, deep in the text before him. Yoz turned away, but couldn't hide a wry little smile as the memories from the previous few nights replayed briefly in her mind. Moira shook her head while extracting a pile of papers from a case. “You did, didn't you.”
“It was medicinal.”
“What? How come I don't get prescriptions like that?”
“You don't have a five thousand year old vampire trying to steal away your friends, do you?”
“Good point.”
“You know what they say. Work hard, play hard.”
“Yoz, that’s disgusting.”
“Can I look at this lot now?” Yoz' voice was a little plaintive, as she was beginning to stagger under the weight of the books and papers her friend had piled in her arms.
“Sure,” and as they walked back to the table where Alan was sitting, Moira suddenly clicked her fingers.
“What?” And Yoz earned a glare from Alan and the few others in the library as she noisily dropped books and papers to the table, raising an explosive cloud of dust.
“Quietly, please. I just remembered something; there's a section in here on theoretical magic and alchemy, and one of the newest papers we've received deals with a new way to destroy incorruptible flesh.”
“Incorruptible - what, like Tiamat?”
“Let me check. It's in my office.” Moira clapped her friend on the shoulder. “You get started on that lot and I'll be back shortly.”
Yoz looked down at the substantial pile in front of her and sighed deeply.
“Best I get started, then.”
Indigo eyes twinkled at her from the other side of the table as her companion lilted lightly: “Yeah. And I bet I finish mine before you finish yours.”
She huffed out a breath as she sat down and opened the old book in front of her, smoothing the yellowing parchment gently with her fingers. “For once, my friend, I fear you may be right.”
Settling down to read, the soft silence of the library descended over all once more.
“Yoz?”
Deep in her study and chewing the end of a pencil, she ignored the light Highland lilt.
“Yoz.”
The voice was becoming insistent and irritating, like a bee trapped in a jar.
“Yoz!”
“Never mind her. I've seen this before, she might be here all night. Do you have somewhere to stay?”
Yoz straightened up at the sound of the second voice; or to be more precise, as soon as her nose detected the smell of the mug of tea her friend was carrying.
“Thanks, Moi. I am a bit dry.”
“It wakes!”
Yoz rolled her eyes at Alan even as her friend snorted in amusement at him.
“Yoz, it looks like this is going to take you a bit longer than you thought. Do you and Alan have anywhere to stay? I can give him a lift and pick him up in the morning, if you like.”
The Mage winked at her friend over the rim of her mug, and watched her blush. “Nah, I didn't think it would take me this long.” She cast her eyes over the papers strewn before her, and puffed out her cheeks in exasperation. “There's so much here. Most of it I've tried, some of it's insane…and all of it, so far, will get us all killed. Which sucks, quite frankly.”
“There is a reason she's still alive - well, undead - after five thousand years, you know.”
“Yeah, I'm beginning to figure that out. Did you find me that paper on the experimental alchemy?”
Her friend produced a slim monograph with a flourish. “Ta-daaaaa!”
Eyes lighting up she reached for it, only to collapse her expression into a fierce scowl when the librarian tucked it behind her back.
“Not until you sort Alan out. You dragged him all the way here, and you didn't even sort out somewhere to stay, did you?”
“There's always my room.”
“Not in here there isn't. It plays hell with the containment fields on some of the books.”
“Oh. Well. You'll be right then. Any ideas?” She gave a big, helpful smile to her friend, who just snorted and shook her head in despair.
“Well, there's always my quarters…”
“Yours? I didn't realise you lived in here.”
“I rented the flat out. Less hassle to stay here…closer to work, as it were. No commuting. Anyway, it's a two bedroom apartment, so if you like Alan could stay there; I know you'll be here all night, studying and poking your nose where it doesn't belong.”
Yoz rocked back in her chair, assuming a wide-eyed expression and pressing her hand to her heart in exaggerated shock. “Moira. You wound me.”
“Yeah, right. I know you, more like. So, if that's alright with you two?” She glanced across at Alan, who had been watching the banter with some amusement, with her eyebrows raised questioningly.
“Aye, fine by me.”
“And of course,” added Yoz smoothly, “you'll be close at hand…in case something comes up in the night.”
Alan laughed, and Moira rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Look, I'll get him settled in and then I'll come back and give you a hand for a few hours, is that OK with you?”
“Of course.”
“And no wandering off to poke about at random.”
“Who, me? Nah. Too bloody busy with this lot.”
“Right then,” she said firmly, and set off between the stacks. Alan moved to follow her, but Yoz caught his arm.
“She likes you. She's my friend.”
“Aye, I know.”
“So, do anything ungentlemanly and I'll have your kidneys for breakfast. Got it?”
“Aye.” He assumed a hurt expression. “Trust me.”
“Oh goddess. Go on, git. Or you'll lose her.”
Chuckling, he hurried off after the librarian, leaving Yoz to her own devices for a bit. She regarded the stack of books on the table in front of her with a gloomy sigh, then picked up the new monograph that Moira had left on top of the pile for her. Turning it over in her hands, she read the title and sighed again.
“I hope there's something new in here,” she said to herself quietly, “or we're all bloody doomed.” She smiled up into the dusty darkness above the stacks. “Again.”
Chuckling, she sat down and began to read.
Following the librarian, Alan took advantage of the opportunity to ogle the incredible building. He'd seen his share of old places; after all, the British Isles were littered with them. But he'd never seen one quite as…no, it wasn't the look, although that was part of it. It was the way it felt, he decided eventually. Most buildings this age seemed slightly affronted at their new livery of strip lights and nylon tufted carpet; even those preserved for the tourists in their original condition always seemed a little…indignant.
This place, however, felt comfortable. It was as though it opened one sleepy eye to watch the pair walking down the corridor, then lapsed back into its doze, content that things were as they should be. It felt…peaceful.
Alan, a man for whom peace had been an all too rare feeling in his life, released a long, long sigh he hadn't realised he was holding and slowed his stride to an amble, the better to enjoy it. Moira, beginning to get ahead of him, slowed to see what was wrong. Observing his expression she smiled warmly, her eyes softening.
“Quite a place, isn't it?”
“Sure is. Feels…I dunno. Peaceful, somehow.”
“It certainly seems to have a personality, doesn't it?” she smiled up at him, then
tucked her arm through his companionably. “Some of the operatives claim that it's to do with the fact that the building is still used for the purpose for which it was built. Others swear that all the psychic and alchemical experimentation that's gone on here have changed the very fabric of the building.” She chuckled. “And the really wild ones claim that it's alive.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. I suspect they're the ones closest to the truth, to be honest. But at the end of the day, it doesn't matter.”
“I guess not,” he replied, admiring the immense length of corridor before them, the sound of their feet muffled on the series of long runners along the centre, the wooden floor gleaming with polish where it was visible at the edges. The oil paintings and watercolours along the walls seemed to fit; the sculptures either on their pedestals or tucked into alcoves all appeared to belong. Even the occasional suit of armour, looking like it had seen hard use in its day rather than merely being a display item or museum piece, looked comfortable in its grand surroundings.
“Here we are,” said Moira after a while, turning into an alcove and unlocking one of the heavy oak doors in it, “'tis a small thing, but mine own.” She waved her guest into the small, cosy lounge while she pottered about putting side lamps on, then moving toward the kitchen. Alan perched on the edge of the arm of one of the comfortable two seat sofas, and looked around himself with interest.
“Nice place,” he said admiringly, looking up at the high, beamed ceiling and then wondering which of the heavy doors led to the bedroom. His or hers, didn't matter.
“Thanks,” said the librarian, sticking her head out of the doorway with a smile, “it's more than enough for me. All mod cons in there, TV, vid, DVD, computer, the lot. Two nice bedrooms, bathroom, fully equipped kitchen,” she shrugged, vanishing back to complete whatever she was doing, “and it doesn't cost me a bean.”
“Really?”
“The Order look after their own,” she finished, coming out of the kitchen and handing him a steaming mug of cocoa.
“Haven't had this for years,” he grinned, inhaling the scent.
“Is it OK? I can -”
“No, it's fine.” He sipped, and made a small exclamation of surprise. “Just right. How'd you know?”
“It's a knack.”
He shook his head ruefully. “I should have known that one of Yoz' friends would have mystical powers.”
“Even if they're a little more…domestic than hers?”
He looked up suddenly, for her tone had been sad. “I didn't mean -”
She flapped a hand at him and curled up in the enormous armchair that was obviously her favourite place. “No, it's OK. But I never used to be able to do anything like that. But the longer I've been involved here, known people like Yoz - and others - the more it seems to rub off.”
“There's others?”
“Oh yes. Many. Some of them are more dangerous than others, of course…but the ones that aren't actually part of the Order do odd jobs for us from time to time. That's when I come across them.”
“More like Yoz,” he took a sip of his cocoa then shook his head, “Jesus.”
“You better believe it,” giggled Moira, “and most of them are just flat out weirdos with no sense of humour. At least with her you can have a laugh.”
“Yeah. So,” and he took another sip, “how did you meet her? This is excellent, by the way.”
“Thanks. One of our operatives screwed up big time in his experiments; killed himself and everyone else in the house he was renting. A team from here had to go and sort it all out; I was taken along to try and salvage his papers, because the Order wastes nothing, you know.”
“I noticed.”
“Anyway, it was a big mess. Turns out the guy had inadvertently opened up a doorway to Hell, which is not a nice place; Yoz showed up and closed it. The Order looked after her here while she recovered -”
“Recovered?”
The librarian shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “It was quite a job. I got to know her while she was here.”
“Chasing her out of places she shouldn't have been.”
“That's the one. Anyway, I'd better head back down there, see if she's made any progress. Or buggered off to look at something more interesting.”
He nodded at her, beginning to feel the pressure of the last few days catching up.
Moira noticed the heaviness in his eyes and smiled fondly. “OK, bathroom there, bedroom that door there. There should be some pyjama bottoms in the chest of drawers that'll fit you; a friend of mine left them last time he stayed, but they're clean. Kitchen you know, help yourself. TV and whatnot ditto. Will you be alright?”
“I'll be fine. I'm guessin' wanderin' the halls would be a bad idea?”
“Ah…yeah. It would.”
“You get off then.” He walked across to where she was standing by the door to the flat, looking concerned. “I'll be fine.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and made his way to the door she'd indicated was to be his bedroom.
“Good night then,” she said softly, “don't wait up.”
“Night. I won't.” And he quietly closed the door behind him.
“Bugger,” muttered the librarian, and headed off to see what mischief her friend had gotten herself into.
