Ian Breaks Into Dair’s Office
I smell oat cake.
Ian raised his mouse nose and sniffed, his whiskers twitching. Yes, the kitchen brownies were baking. That toasted oatmeal and warm flour smell was unmistakable.
He licked his lips. They’d made them with bacon fat, the little scuts. He could imagine just how it would taste, that smoky, salty savor and the hot oats, and at least half a stick of butter melted on top.
Hamish wanted something.
Grumbling, Ian wiggled out of his hiding spot among the leaves of the potted sweet potato vine. He’d been watching Nidesha answer phones at the reception desk, which was a gas every time because she was rude on a good day. But Hamish’s offers never lasted long. If Ian didn’t hurry, those fresh, hot oatcakes would be wrapped up and set aside for somebody else. The bleedin’ otter monster, probably. Hamish could be mean-spirited.
Ian hopped to the edge of the wooden planter box, shook off the bits of potting soil stuck to his fur, and jumped to the floor. He landed heavily and posed, waiting.
Nidesha glanced down, curled her lip at him and went back to her phone call.
Not even a squeal. You had to admire a woman that bloody-minded.
Chortling, Ian scuttled along the wall until he reached the corner, then paused at the entrance to the hallway.
Now, what were the odds that Hamish was lurking in the hallway?
Pretty high.
Ian took horse form, because it would irritate Hamish, then shook his mane and strolled into the hall.
The brownie was, indeed, waiting, looking all gloomy and short and fuzzy. Ian snorted at him. “Well? What do you want?”
Hamish put his walnut-sized hands on his hips. “We haven’t cleaned His Highness’ office in two days.”
“Which Highness? If it’s Barry–“
“Prince Dair.”
“The price just went up.”
“You were going to ask for all the oatcakes anyway.”
“Now I want all the oatcakes and Irish stew to go with them. Heavy on the Guinness.”
Hamish’s scowl grew new wrinkles. “As if you aren’t dying to try to break in.”
Ian shifted to the rabbit and pointed one ear at Hamish. “If I didn’t want to do it, I’d ask for a lot more. And we both know all the kitcheners have to do is snap their fingers. Just snap! And there’s stew.”
“Brownies cook like anybody else, ye walloper.”
Ian tidied his whiskers with his front paws and waited.
“Och, fine. All the cakes and stew.”
“I’ll want butter on those cakes.”
“You don’t put out oatcakes without butter, ye eejit.”
Ian switched to the mouse. “So you just need the door unlocked?”
“Aye.”
“Too easy.”
Hamish chuckled.
Okay, the brownie had a point. It likely wouldn’t be easy.
Ian knew before he reached the door to Dair’s office that wiggling under the doorframe wouldn’t be an option. Not enough space, for one thing. But there was also a nasty ward on the door. Much stronger than the ones Dair usually used to keep Ian out.
He shifted to the raven and studied the door, clacking his beak absently. Could he break this ward? Maybe. Given enough time and the right tools. But he’d have burns and blisters in uncomfortable spots. And was that bit there a curse on the privates? Severe itching for three days. Mary and Joseph.
What was Dair hiding in that office?
Time to try another approach. Ian shifted to the rabbit and darted back to the reception area, switching to human just long enough to pull the front door open. As soon as he was outside he took raven form again, leaving the door open to annoy Nidesha.
Based on the noise as he took off, it worked. Too bad he didn’t speak Cedar Elvish. She’d probably said something interesting just then.
The rain on his feathers wasn’t bad. Ian did a few loops and dives before landing on the roof. He shifted to the mouse and started in on the nearest shingle, gnawing at the wood until he’d made a good-sized hole all the way down through the layers to the roof deck. He rested his jaws for a few minutes, then chewed his way through the deck as well, until he could see ceiling beams and drywall.
Excellent. Ian wiggled through the hole and dropped, landing on the drywall ceiling directly over Dair’s office.
Best not make it too obvious. He scampered over to the corner and began to gnaw, grimacing at the taste. Drywall always left his mouth coated in chalky paste. And the dust on his whiskers was disorienting. Like he was constantly about to smash into something.
He made the hole just big enough, then squeezed through it, switching to raven in midair. He did a turn around the room and came to a neat landing on top of Dair’s elegant mahogany desk, right next to the cordless phone.
Ha. Take that, Hamish. Too easy.
It was an expensive room. The leather chair looked like it had been created with magic and a custom mold of Dair’s backside. The carpet was the unstained white of a snowbank in a blizzard. The lamp looked like an heirloom. There was a kitchenette with a little fridge, and a shelf with jars of loose-leaf teas. On the short granite counter sat the sort of tea set they probably used at Buckingham Palace.
Ian thought about making himself a cup. There had to be something on the shelf that went well with oatcakes. He’d open the door, demand a plate of oatcakes, and then sit in Dair’s fancy chair and drink Dair’s fancy tea and eat the whole plate.
Before that, though . . .
Perhaps he’d have a go at guessing Dair’s password.
Ian switched to human form and hopped off the desk, landing on the balls of his feet. Then he settled himself in Dair’s desk chair.
Zap.
When he woke up, he was lying on his back, aching all over, and he couldn’t feel his toes. He tried opening his eyes. The right one seemed okay. The left one began to twitch.
“Through the roof, as I thought,” a familiar voice said.
Dair. The evil chancer.
“You set me up!” Ian bellowed. Tried to bellow. It came out all wheezy. He twisted his neck until he could look up into the beaming face of the prince of elves.
Dair was sitting in his fancy chair, one leg crossed over the other. Next to the chair stood Hamish, looking dour. And smug, curse him.
“We shall be implementing this warding system for a client next week,” Dair said, saluting Ian with a steaming cup of fancy tea. “The client did not see the wisdom in warding the ceiling.”
“You could’ve asked,” Ian wheezed.
“Aye,” Hamish said, “but you’d have said no first. And doubled the price before you said yes. And maybe now you’ll think twice before sneaking about and stealing.”
As if. Ian cursed him thoroughly. Dair smiled and sipped tea. So Ian cursed Dair, too.
“Hamish,” Dair said. “Do you bring the oatcakes. The pooka is out of temper.”
“Butter and cheese!” Ian said, pointing a trembling finger at Hamish. His whole body was trembling. Whatever spell they’d put on that seat cushion had scrambled his insides. “The good cheese. I know you’ve got Camembert. And I want some of whatever Dair is drinking. With a pint on the side.”
“Whatever you will have,” Dair said, with another of his glittering smiles. “You are a valued member of the team, my friend.”
“Wait till you see what I do to your bike,” Ian said, rolling on his side and pushing himself up. He couldn’t quite manage to stand, but at least he wasn’t prone on the carpet.
Dair stopped smiling. “You will leave the motorcycle alone.”
“I will, yeah,” Ian said. Then he added, “That line in the ward spell about itching for three days?”
Dair’s eyes narrowed. “Aye?”
“Memorized it. Oh, Hamish, there you are. Just set the plate in front of me. A few crumbs on the carpet never hurt anyone.”