Inquisitor Blues by Cin Eric

Author:Cin Eric [Eric, Cin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Urban Fantasy
Publisher: MuseItUp Publishing
Published: 2011-10-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

The Grand Inquisitor’s intercom buzzed and his gatekeeper informed him that Inquisitor Conway was waiting to see him.

Grint was eager to find out what had been done about that vexing vixen of a journalist Sonya Romney. He needed her latest “gossip” to die a quiet death, because of what was inside the manila binder currently lying on his desk. He’d assigned Cave to question their “special guest” because he’d calculated that, it being Cave’s first day back after a long convalescence, he wouldn’t really be up to the task, would most likely gasp and flap his way through the interrogation like a fish out of water. Which meant he would want it over and done with as soon as possible.

Which meant he wouldn’t be thorough.

Grint jabbed the intercom button and barked, “Let him in.” Then he walked over to an oil painting of a pair of inquisitors questioning the werewolf astronomer Galileo and stood before it with his back to the door.

Out in the waiting room, the gatekeeper looked at Inquisitor Conway, lean and long-limbed and lounging, and said, “Go in, Inquisitor, but expect a bumpy ride. His Eminence isn’t in the sunniest mood today.”

As Conway stepped into the office, Grint addressed the painting on the wall: “Take a seat. How’s your first day back on the job treating you?”

“Not bad, Your Eminence.”

“You don’t reckon you need more time off, do you?”

“Ah, no.”

Conway looked around, noting the manila binder and yellow pay packet stacked neatly one atop the other on the desk. He stared at the blood-red stamp that read “eyes only” on the binder’s cover, and then gave the Grand Inquisitor his full attention.

Grint turned around on the spot and gave him an equally sharp-eyed appraisal. Then he sighed, crossed the office to his desk, and slumped into his throne. Uncharacteristically, His Eminence wasn’t wearing the robe of office over his suit, which appeared to have spent the night doubling as pyjamas. The whites of his eyes were shot through with red like a bloodlusting vampire’s, the skin on his face looked coarser than usual. And is that a five o’clock shadow I see before me? Someone’s had a long, hard night at the Wolfmeat Bar by the look of it. You disgusting, horrible scum.

Grint said, “What did you squeeze out of that reporter?”

Conway told him about the dropped charges, the public records.

Grint laughed a little to himself, and then said, “We’ll have those seized and relocated to the Archive yesterday.”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“What else?”

Conway told him that he’d threatened Miss Romney with jail time before letting her go, because the Holy Office wouldn’t want to validate the claims in her article by giving it further attention it didn’t deserve, would they?

Grint chewed on this news for a moment, lips compressed and downturned, and then asked, “Do you reckon you’re ready for real work then?”

Conway gave a nod.

“Good, because I’ve an assignment for you. Wetwork, I’m afraid.”

Memories of past wetwork assignments, of blood flowering across chests like roses blooming in fast-forward, flashed before Conway’s vision.

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