Once Upon Stilettos

“I wonder what that was about,” I said, but before he had a chance to respond, I already knew the answer. There was a street musician near the entrance to the subway at Union Square, playing the bongos with no sense of rhythm. I grabbed Owen’s arm, for the would-be drummer wearing a brightly colored Rasta cap that didn’t go with his otherwise nerdy attire was none other than MSI’s current nemesis, Phelan Idris. I was fairly certain he was using a spell to hide himself from Owen.



“What is it this time?” Owen asked under his breath.



“Let’s just say there’s a good reason that guy playing the drums has no rhythm.”



He gave a weary sigh and walked right up to the bongo player. “Sorry I don’t have any spare change on me,” he said. “I know we messed up your livelihood, but couldn’t you have found something a little less degrading to do? Your lack of talent is embarrassing.”



Idris’s beat got even more off as he looked up at Owen, then turned to glare at me. I gave him a cheery little wave. “So you’re still using your girlfriend’s eyes, huh, Owen?” he asked.



It would have been nice if Owen could have managed a hint of a blush at that point. He was so bashful that it didn’t take much to turn him beet red, and surely if he secretly harbored any feelings for me whatsoever, the accusation that I was his girlfriend should have been enough to make him start glowing. Instead, he remained icily calm. “And you’re still dredging up whatever abominations you can find. Or are you making them yourself? Magical bioengineering isn’t just against the code, it’s a bad idea.”



“Oh yeah, the oh-so-holy code. Well, don’t worry about me. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, as you’ll see soon enough.”



Owen rolled his eyes and turned to head into the subway, muttering under his breath. I hurried to follow him, but paused to look back when I heard a loud bang. Idris’s drums had exploded in a shower of silver dust, earning far more applause than his playing had. I got the impression that Owen hadn’t been muttering curses. Well, not the obscene kind, anyway.



I caught up to Owen just past the turnstiles. “He’s up to something,” he said, more like he was talking to himself than to me.



“Isn’t he always?”



“Well, yeah, I guess. But sending me a message like this means he’s up to something new, and he wants me to know about it.”



“Doesn’t that sort of ruin the element of surprise? You’d think he’d accomplish more if he didn’t give you advance warning.”



“Yeah, you’d think, but he doesn’t work that way. I suspect half the fun for him is watching us react.” He frowned. “Unless maybe he isn’t up to anything at all, and he just wants us to think he is.”



“Owen, if you keep that up, your brain is going to explode.”



He looked at me, then shook his head and laughed. “I am sounding paranoid. Okay, I won’t let him get to me.”



The rest of our commute went without incident. We got off at the City Hall station, crossed the park and a street, then headed down a side street to the castle-like building that housed MSI. A cheerful voice greeted us as we approached. “And a good Monday to you!” it said.



Both of us looked up to see a gargoyle perched on the awning over the front door. “Good morning, Sam,” I said. Sam was in charge of security for MSI.



“How was the hot date?” the gargoyle asked with a wink.



“It was good, thanks.”



“Everything under control, Sam?” Owen asked.



Sam saluted with one wing. “The building’s still standing.”



Owen grinned. “Keep up the good work.”



Inside, Owen and I parted ways, him heading to Research and Development, me heading up to the executive suite, where I was assistant to Ambrose Mervyn, the chief executive officer. He’s better known as Merlin. Yes, the Merlin, as in King Arthur and all that. He’d founded what had gone on to become this company, then was revived recently from a sort of magical hibernation to take charge once again as we faced the serious crisis of dealing with Phelan Idris and his dark spells.



I found Merlin at his receptionist’s desk, fiddling with the telephone. He might be a legendary genius, but he was new to the twenty-first century. I had a feeling that within days, though, he’d know exactly how a telephone worked and might even have built one from scratch.



“Good morning, Katie,” he greeted me.



“Good morning. Where’s Trix?”



“I’m afraid she’s out ill. Would you mind sitting at her desk today?”