3
Expense Claims Are Hell
Antioch Grey
Susan liked Mondays.
Weekends were busy, filled with exorcisms, banishings, removing curses, and general works of goodness. Monday was the day that the forces of darkness took the day off, slept in, and planned for the week ahead. Even werewolves stayed at home if a full moon fell on a Monday, catching up on whatever it was they did when they weren’t out hunting rabbits or people.
The added fillip was thinking about all those people who went to work on a Monday to battle their own forces of darkness—the boss, the commute, the annoying colleagues, and all the aggravation of a nine-to-five office job.
Susan had none of that. She had waking up late, a sturdy breakfast, and staying in her pyjamas until lunchtime, and the smug sensation of being ever-so-slightly a force of darkness herself. It was only ever-so-slightly though, so she could wear sensible flannel pyjamas, unlike true evil, which tended to wear slinky black negligees—all the better for entrapping men and stealing their souls.
Stealing something anyway, something that would pass for a soul in today’s crass world.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the forces of darkness that she had to contend with that Monday.
Her phone gave that constipated chirp that signalled that a message had arrived asking her to deal with something nasty.
She punched the pillow.
“What?” she said.
“You have one message,” the phone replied.
“I know that. Tell me what it says.”
The phone recited a post code for the location, a general code for the Local Difficulty, and then made a spluttering noise. Susan plucked the phone from the bedside cabinet and peered at the message through half-closed eyes.
There was a specialised emoticon at the end of the message to show that it was authentic and had been sent by one of her bosses. It looked like an emoticon for constipation, which brought to mind her boss’s face when reviewing the expenses claims.
“Bugger,” she said.
Adding, after concentrated further thought, “Double bugger. There’s only one set of gits who don’t keep to the Monday truce.”
The post code was at the ends of the earth, or at least the Northern Line. The Tube was hot, overcrowded, and delayed due to overrunning engineering works. She wondered idly what that announcement was covering up and which one of her colleagues had been sent out to deal with whatever it was that had blocked the line.
She made a surreptitious offering to the Dark Gods of the Railways, and the Tube train passed through safely.
The post code led her to a garden.
It was a big garden, attached to a fine house that had been there before the city swallowed it up. It ran to acres of woodland, sculpted topiary, and long borders, but it fell well short of the usual Wild Places that attracted the strange and unearthly. It was also open to the public three days a week and every other weekend.
A man was waiting for her by the gate with the anxious look of a person who had seen too much and was looking for someone to take over responsibility for dealing with whatever it was.
“I’m Susan,” she said. “I believe you have been expecting me.”
“Adrian,” he said. He held out his hand uncertainly to be shaken, imposing a sense of order on things by following the rote politenesses demanded of two Brits meeting on business.
“So, what’s the problem?” she said.
Adrian’s unease deepened. “I don’t know what they told you . . . ”
“Not a lot—they don’t like to give us any preconceptions.”
“We have some fine statues here, brought back from Greece by one of the family six generations ago when they did the Grand Tour.”
Susan nodded.
“They’ve started talking.”
Adrian had the look of a man who expected to be disbelieved, because he didn’t believe it himself. Susan didn’t tell him that talking statues was low down on the pecking list of strange things she had dealt with because there was a fine line between instilling confidence in someone and completely rearranging their world view.
In her experience, people wanted to think that their problem was an aberration and that the world generally made sense. This was obviously nonsense and not true, but Susan understood the need to cling to comforting illusions.
It was, after all, why she still completed her expenses claims.
She put on her best expression calculated to soothe the general public—a little stern, a lot competent, and a tiny soupçon of self-deprecating humour.
“Ok. So, I assume you’re familiar with the history of the place—is there any suggestion of human sacrifice, or any sort of ritual cult activity?”
Adrian’s expression brightened. It wasn’t just that someone believed him, but someone was going to take the problem off his hands. “The only thing that has been sacrificed in this vicinity is a couple of cans of Special Brew, or a packet of crisps and—very possibly—someone’s virginity in some cheap bunk-up against a tree,” he said. “We do get teenagers breaking into the garden after hours for that kind of thing, but there’s never been anything more exotic than that.”
“Right. Well you had better show me the statues, and I will see what I can do.”
Adrian opened the gate and stood back politely to allow her to pass through first.
It was probably politeness, but she still paused to check that the gate was a simple door and not a portal and that there was nothing hungry lurking behind it. She stepped through smartly and then shifted to the side, away from Adrian, just in case he had been possessed and was waiting for her to turn her back so that he could pounce on her from behind.
No portals. Nothing lurking. No stunning blow from behind. So far, so good.
Adrian moved around her and then led the way down a narrow garden path flanked by meadow grass and the sort of flowers that farmers called weeds but which trendy gardeners loved to put in long borders.
It was pretty, she thought. It would be a shame if something happened to it.
The path wound its way down through the meadow to a gap in a serpentine green hedge and then into a lawned area surrounded by elegant white statues in various states of undress. They were a little worn, but enough detail remained to identify them from their attributes: Athena with her owl, Hera and a peacock, Hermes and his winged sandals, and a big burly chap with lots of facial hair and a thunderbolt who could only be Zeus.
“Which ones have started talking, then?” she asked.
Adrian pointed to the far end of the lawn where two large lumps of stone were squatting in front of a statue of Demeter.
Susan stared at Demeter. “She’s not talking now . . . ”
“Not her,” Adrian said, interrupting her.
Susan looked at the statue again. “Oh.”
Whatever the lumps were, she’d never seen anything like them before. Mind you, in this job, you didn’t tend to get much repeat business, apart from the vampires, and that truce seemed to be holding for now.
She had never heard that trolls were real, but maybe they were . . .
It was an interesting question whether she would be better off walking up to the . . . things, or try and flank them. If they had poor periphery vision, she might be able to sneak up on them, but was that wise with something Magical? That tended to result in hexes first and questions later, and there was always a chance that this could be resolved by negotiation.
Or threats. And you had to be facing an entity to deliver threats, so it was the full-frontal approach . . .
Susan coughed, politely announcing her presence to the entities. If there was any reaction, she couldn’t tell.
She moved forward slowly, keeping a weather eye on the blobs. There were no sudden moves; there were no moves at all. At fifteen feet she stopped and waited. If they didn’t move now, they really were just lumps of rocks, and she could go home and have the rest of her Monday off.
“’Ello,” said a lump.
“Yeah, ’ello,” said the other lump.
“Good morning,” Susan replied. “You seem new round here.”
“I suppose we are,” said the first lump.
“New to here anyway, but not really new overall,” said the second lump.
“So you’re old?”
“More immortal,” said the first lump. “You know how it goes.”
Susan had the sinking feeling that she did. “So, what brings you to these parts?”
The lumps would have shuffled their feet in embarrassment if they’d had feet.
“Who did you cross?” Susan said, with a sigh.
“Not cross,” protested the first lump.
“If certain gods were more reasonable and more appreciative when others were trying to help them, then this would never have happened,” said the second lump.
“You expected gods to be reasonable,” Susan said. “It’s really not in the job description.”
“I’d object to that remark, being a god,” said the first lump. “But, for once, I feel like siding with a mortal.”
The second lump shrugged. “I agree. She has a point.”
“What Pantheon are you from?” Susan asked.
The two lumps conferred. “I don’t really understand the question,” said the first lump. “There is really only one set of gods.”
“Not really,” Susan said, wondering whether it was wise to introduce her new acquaintances to comparative theology. “Rather more than one, to be accurate.”
“If you mean those Eastern gods, well, they’re just different aspects of us,” the first lump continued.
“Yeah, we’re all drawing from the same well, except our well is nicer, with columns and lots of marble. And sunken baths.”
“Greek, then,” Susan said. She let the matter of other pantheons drop. The Greek gods tended to be sniffy about the Roman gods as cheap copies of themselves, viewed the Eastern gods as primal urges which they had sublimated and improved on, the Norse gods were just barbarians, and anyone else were Johnny-come-lately upstarts. Just like any other god, they viewed their Pantheon as the one true Pantheon, and the others as . . . well, inconvenient.
Susan had often wondered whether the gods had the neighbours round in heaven where they would gather round the heavenly wine and nibbles and complain about her at number 26 who was no better than she ought to be and how the snake gods were lowering the tone, what with not even bothering with clothes or limbs.
She was in no hurry to volunteer to experience this. Firstly, she would probably have to be dead, and secondly, she had the feeling she would end up as cup bearer or whatever and serving the nibbles. She’d been a part-time waitress, once, and she had no interest in repeating the experience with a clientele who wouldn’t dream of tipping.
Gods did like to be the centre of attention. And talking, lots and lots of talking. It was their Achilles’ heel.
Susan congratulated herself on the culturally appropriate metaphor. “So, what are two fine Greek gods doing hanging around in a garden in north London?”
“Looking for a way home,” said lump one. “But she’s not talking.”
“Er, Demeter?”
“Yeah. We thought she might put in a good word for us.”
“With whom?”
Lump one replied, “The son-in-law.”
“Hades?”
“That’s the one.
“I hate gods,” said Susan. “I really do.”
“You and me both,” said Lump One. “And I am one.”
Susan wished there was a book of etiquette to deal with situations like meeting strange (non-hostile) gods for the first time. She knew what to do when the god was trying to rain down hellfire or sacrifice some followers to open an eldritch portal, but not what to do when the god was shambling around looking a bit lost.
In the end, there was only one thing to do, the thing that any Brit did when faced with an awkward situation that had no precedent.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” she asked.
“What’s tea?” replied Lump One.
“Yes,” said Lump Two and poked his mate in the ribs. “Whatever it is, we want it.”
There was a little cafeteria in the grounds of the house to service the day trippers’ need for sustenance and tea, and Adrian had the key to the nearest thing to Heaven that could be found this side of the aetheric boundary.
“I’m not sure we should be doing this,” he said, turning the key in the lock. “I’m only supposed to use it for the loo.”
“If you want to disappoint two gods . . . ” Susan said. “But I warn you, it tends to lead to seven years’ bad luck.”
“Only seven weeks,” Lump One said. “We’re only minor gods, though I say it as shouldn’t.”
“Still nasty though,” Lump Two added, just in case anyone got any ideas that a short smiting stopped short of being a full smiting.
Adrian pushed the door open, conceding the point, and allowed Susan and her two followers to shuffle into the small space round the back of the café where the kettle and tea things stood on the side of a long stainless steel counter.
“So, what’s this tea then?” Lump One said.
“It’s a drink,” Susan answered, filling the kettle. “It’s hot, it’s soothing, and it’s good for drinking in all sorts of crises.”
“Is this a crisis?” Lump One asked.
“There’s no blood,” Lump Two replied. “Usually there’s blood in a crisis. And limbs. Limbs that are not usually attached to bodies. That’s an infallible sign.”
“Or the sacrificial fires going out,” Lump One said. “You don’t see a lot of that these days.”
“There’s a definite lack of sacrificial fires to go out,” Lump Two said. “It’s a disgrace.”
Susan poured the hot water into a novelty teapot in the shape of a London bus and swirled it round to brew properly.
“Milk?” she said to Adrian, who nodded yes. He kept looking at the two self-described deities with something halfway between horror and admiration. Like someone who had a live snake by the tail and was wondering whether it would be better to try and get a better grip closer to the head or just throw it away and hope he could run faster than an angry snake.
Susan knew how that felt, though her job was mostly predicated on getting a better grip both literally and metaphorically.
“So,” she said airily, pushing a mug of dark tea towards the two Lumps. “What are your names?”
Lump One and Lump Two exchanged wary looks.
“I can’t make an offering of a biscuit without knowing what gods to call on,” Susan said, trying to pass off the issue of the Knowing of Names as something minor she was mentioning in passing, just as a courtesy really, and with no intention of using a Name to banish an entity back to whence they came.
“You can call me Detritus,” said Lump One.
“Debris,” said Lump Two.
“You don’t need our real names,” Detritus said with a look that spoke of smiting if someone was foolish enough to press the point.
“No worries,” Susan said mildly. “I offer you, Detritus, a chocolate hobnob as an offering to secure your good will. I offer you, Debris, a Jaffa cake as an offering to secure your good will. May you both look kindly on me and mine.”
“We accept your offerings,” both Lumps said, then snaffled their biscuits.
Susan didn’t feel the cold fingers of fate running down her back, which just goes to show you how little fate knows about anything.
The lumps peered at their tea suspiciously then took a cautious sip apiece, followed by a nibble of a Jaffa cake.
“That’s nice,” said Debris.
“Relaxing,” said Detritus. “I feel all calm and ready to take on any task.”
“Yes,” said Debris. “So if you’ll just offer up your prayer request, we’ll sort that out before we head back.”
“If we can work out how to head back,” added Detritus. “But answering prayers first.”
Susan had the feeling she’d made a huge misstep. “I don’t have a prayer that needs answering,” she said. “I’ve made a propitiary offering as a matter of good manners but that’s all. I don’t need a favour.”
“We have to reciprocate your offering,” Debris said.
“Not have to, really, but we want to. We’re not like those stuck-up posh gods you know—we keep our word,” Detritus said.
“Bugger,” said Susan, and no more heartfelt prayer had ever been uttered by her.
It is embarrassing, at her level of experience, to acquire two shambling gods determined to grant her a wish, or a prayer at least.
“You need to ask us for something,” Debris said.
“Something unrelated to home décor,” Detritus added quickly, but wouldn’t be drawn on why.
“Is there someone you want smiting?” Debris said. “We could manage a small smite.”
“A smite-ette,” Detritus said.
“Lots of people,” Susan said darkly. The bloke who had sat next to her on the train journey here and put his feet on the seat opposite, he was in need of a good smiting. And the mechanic who’d serviced her car, who she was sure had charged her extra for being female. And the chap who administered her expenses claims, and who wanted receipts for everything, and had no sympathy for anyone who didn’t manage to have a countersigned fee note in triplicate simply because they were being set fire to at the time.
But if you started down that road, there was no stopping until you turned into a Dark Practitioner and started wringing the necks of chickens at midnight and cursing your enemies.
“But no one in particular,” she added, letting that particular dream of vengeance pass quietly away.
“Some crops that need to be encouraged?” Debris asked. “Technically, we ought not to do something like that as it’s not strictly our line of work, but that was a very nice biscuit.”
“Very nice,” said Detritus.
Susan shook her head.
Susan had no crops. Susan had a small courtyard garden surrounded by pots of fake plants that looked pretty all year round and needed neither watering nor weeding but which confused the local snails no end.
“A swain you wish to seduce?” Debris suggested.
“Got one, thanks,” Susan replied. Or as near as she was going to get to one in her line of work. Her shabby little necromancer had tidied himself up, bought a suit, had a haircut, and had bought her a present. Admittedly, Demons and How to Thwart Them wasn’t the most romantic gift, but it was useful, and it was the thought that counted. It wasn’t as if she needed to do anything more complicated than buy him a pint and show him her bra to seduce him. The higher arts of champagne and lingerie were not necessary.
“Perhaps we could think about it later,” Susan said. “Once we’ve worked out how to get you home.”
They looked at each other. “Well,” said Debris.
“Let’s not rush into anything,” added Detritus.
“I mean, I’m sure they’re missing us, but perhaps they should be given more of a chance to miss us, if you see what I mean,” Debris said.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” said Detritus.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” offered Susan, more in hope than anger, but they were not to be moved.
“So, as our worshipper, you need to find us a temple to inhabit,” Debris said. “Somewhere we can lay our godly heads.”
Susan did not believe in taking her work home.
She reached into her pocket, took out her phone, and sent a text message – Need somewhere to keep two gods out of trouble for a while. Any suggestions?
She didn’t have long to wait for a response.
Warehouse in the Old Kent Road. I’ll meet you there.
“Right,” she said. “You’d better come with me. I’ve found you a temple.”
It was fortunate that the Great British Commuter took everything in their stride, tucked up in their own worlds, protected by headphones and smartphones from the harsh realities of existence. Susan did not fancy explaining to others whilst she had two rocks lumbering after her, even if they were lumbering rocks with tickets.
They had to change twice, and then take a bus, to reach their destination: a gloomy building tucked down a grubby side street that looked like it had not been cleaned since the Victorian era. It was just the sort of place that a necromancer would choose to conduct their experiments—short on visitors and so far away from the passing traffic that screams would not be heard.
It was perfect for storing gods.
“Hello luv.” Stephen’s head appeared from the shadows, almost disembodied in the dark depths of the doorway that could dimly be seen to one side of the alley. “Will this do?”
“It’s just what I need,” Susan replied.
There was an awkward pause whilst they worked out whether there would be kissing, and if so, where, until Susan took the lead and dropped a short, sweet kiss on his mouth. Stephen turned a shade pinker and ducked his head, his hair falling round his face.
“Ooh,” said Debris. “Is this your swain?”
“Yes,” said Susan, surprising Stephen into a quick grin.
“I’ve never been a swain before,” Stephen said. “Will I have to recite poetry, and wear straw behind my ear?”
“Poetry is always nice,” Detritus said. “It’ll win any woman’s heart.”
“If you could see your way clear to a nice offering, we could make sure that Susan here stays yours for ever, or at least until someone else makes a better offer to us,” Debris said.
“And she’s no Helen, so you should be safe there,” Detritus continued. “Not many will be falling over themselves to make a better offer. No offence.”
“Plenty taken,” Susan said.
“I’m a necromancer,” Stephen said. “I might need help with romance, but I’m a dab hand at death. I can take care of any rivals myself, thank you very much. I know a couple of very hungry demons, and some very nasty spell traps.”
Susan grinned. That was her kind of man.
“This is Debris and Detritus. Don’t offer them any tea, don’t offer them any food; in fact, don’t offer them anything at all without agreeing a price up front.”
“Right oh,” Stephen said. “I invite you to take shelter under my roof, and ask only that you leave the place in the condition you find it in and never breathe a word as to what you find here.”
“Fair enough,” said Detritus.
“Done,” said Debris.
The three of them crossed the threshold, Susan first, and then the two gods bringing up the rear. Inside, the warehouse was bright and airy, and largely empty. There was an ornate carved bed at one end, a long line of bookcases along the far wall filled with the sort of books that amateurs should not be allowed within ten feet of, and a large Persian rug in deep shades of red.
“Kitchen and bathroom through there,” Stephen said, pointing at a couple of doors.
“I thought this was a warehouse,” Susan said.
“So did the Council,” he replied. “It’s no good having a secret lair that someone can find by looking you up on the voting registry, is it?”
“This is your lair? It’s lovely.” Susan moved deeper into the building, her fingers twitching towards the books. “Are you sure you’re happy to take this pair in?”
“They can’t get up to much in here. It’s the centre of a large protective circle that damps down most magical activity apart from mine.” Stephen waved a hand in the direction of the floor. “It’s built in, unscuffable and unmovable.”
“We’re not magical,” said Debris.
“We’re gods,” said Detritus.
“Whatever you say.” Susan didn’t want to get involved in complex theological arguments, particularly with gods who tended to sulk if you disagreed with them and start smiting. She wanted to pack them off to heaven, have a nice alcoholic beverage of her choice, and sweet talk her swain into letting her read some of his books.
“You really need a sofa in here,” she said, thinking of the books.
“I second that,” Debris said.
“In a nice taupe,” Detritus added. “Perhaps with a red stripe.”
“Red makes me think of blood.” Stephen’s eye twitched. “And taupe makes me think of cold, dead flesh.”
Debris and Detritus looked at Stephen, with the long hard look of gods trying to work out whether a worshipper was several thuribles short of a censing.
“Right,” said Detritus.
“Ooookay,” said Debris.
“Black goes with everything,” said Susan. “And doesn’t show the dirt or the bloodstains.”
It was Susan’s turn for being stared at hard.
“I’m not sure you’re the right class of worshipper we are looking for,” Debris said.
“No,” said Detritus.
Susan shrugged. “You’ll be the first gods I’ve met who were fussy about blood.”
“We don’t mind people making offerings. That’s right and proper,” said Debris.
“But not on the soft furnishings,” said Detritus, and shuddered.
“In my line of work, you tend not to be that fussy about that sort of thing.” Susan shook her head sadly. “It tends to get messy. If it’s not the blood, it’s the unguents, the herbs, and the salt you track in from the circles . . . ”
Stephen grunted in agreement, and the two gods exchanged long looks, silently communicating their disappointment with the modern world and its inhabitants.
“Do you have some tea?” Susan asked. “Not for them—that’s what started all this. But I’m gasping.”
Stephen opened the door to the left to reveal a neat but snug kitchen, well equipped with all the equipment a budding chef would need and which would also usefully double up as a necromancer’s tools of the trade.
She hoped he cleaned his tools between uses.
“Earl Grey, or something more robust?” he asked.
She followed him into the kitchen, pressed up against him so she could feel the heat of his body and catch the scent of herbs in his hair. Stephen wasn’t objecting to her closeness.
“Earl Grey will be fine,” she replied. “Have you any ideas about how to get rid of our guests? They say they can’t go home until they’ve answered my prayers and I don’t have any that need answering, unless you count the trains running on time, and I don’t think they’re powerful enough to sort that out . . . ”
Stephen snorted with laughter. “I don’t think anyone is.”
“And they can’t go home, even if they wanted to,” Susan continued. “Apparently, they don’t know how.”
Stephen filled the kettle, and set it to boil. “Standard dismissal charm work, level one, with a couple of extra ounces of salt should see them off. But not until you’ve had your prayers answered. Of course, you could always argue that they’re too late, they were already answered when you met me.”
“You’re cute,” she said, and nudged him with her hip to ease the sting of her words. “But not that cute.”
“I’ll settle for cute,” he said.
“And I really am grateful for your help with these two,” she added. “Can you imagine what havoc they would cause on a job?”
As it turned out, they didn’t have to imagine.
Susan got another text, another job, another trip across town, and two bulky shadows who refused to be left behind.
“What if you need us?” Debris said.
“You’d look very silly getting yourself killed when we could have saved you by answering a prayer,” Detritus said.
So, in the end, Susan took Debris and Detritus along with her and couldn’t prevent Stephen from following along behind. Not without a strong hex, and hexing is no basis on which to form a relationship; certainly not in the first few months, anyway.
“All right, but we’re going by taxi this time,” she said.
Her employers had an account with a taxi firm. It was supposed to be for emergencies, because even they had to admit that you couldn’t take a tentacle monster on a bus, even in the shabby parts of town.
Debris and Detritus took some persuading to get in the back of the car, eventually taking the long seat at the back, leaving the two smaller facing seats to Stephen and Susan.
“I could get used to this,” Stephen said. “I usually get a bus, not a taxi.”
“The London commuter is a patient unquestioning beast, but there are limits,” Susan said. “I just dread to think how long it will take me to get my expenses back.”
“We could help with that,” said Detritus.
“Best not,” Susan said. “I can’t imagine what the finance department would make of divine intervention, but it would probably lead to additional forms to be filed in triplicate and probably docking my pay to boot. Gits.”
“If you’re sure,” said Debris.
“Very,” Susan said firmly.
They made the half-mile trip across London in the rush hour in forty minutes, which seemed suspiciously fast, but both the gods denied divine intervention.
“Probably just Luck,” said Debris. “She’s always been very helpful to us. I think she likes Detritus.”
Detritus blushed.
“You don’t owe her any prayers though,” Debris added. “She’s funny about that sort of thing. Whenever you call on her, she goes away.”
“If only,” Susan murmured.
The taxi drew up outside a typical Edwardian-style north London villa, red brick with white and black bricks picking out a geometric pattern above and below the bay windows surmounted with pitched roofs. A man was standing outside, looking up and down the road with an expression that hovered between worry and hope.
“I believe you’re expecting me,” Susan said, holding out her hand in greeting. “I’m Susan.”
“I’m Nigel. I was told it was just you,” he said, peering at her companions with suspicion.
“They’re trainees,” she said. “They’re accompanying me on a learning experience. Gives them a taste of field work in a supervised and safe environment and gives me someone to help carry any equipment.”
“Oh,” Nigel said, his brow clearing. “That makes sense, I suppose. I suppose you’d like to come inside?”
“I don’t think we want to attract any more attention than we have to,” Susan said.
“No.” Nigel looked down the road again, checking for twitching net curtains and worrying about the effect of this on house prices. He gestured for them to go through the front door ahead of him. The entrance hall had the original flooring tiles, or good reproductions, and tasteful cream walls with cornices and a ceiling rose round the light fitting. “Would you like some tea?”
“Not for the apprentices,” Susan said quickly. “And not for me, either. I’d like to get started straight away.”
Denied the usual courtesies, Nigel floundered for an instant, unsure how to handle the arrival of paranormal specialists in his home. “Right. It’s upstairs.”
“What is?” asked Stephen.
“The ghost,” Nigel said uncertainly.
“Trainee,” Susan mouthed, and shook her head despairingly at the difficulties of educating young people today. “Upstairs you say?”
Nigel nodded. “Do you want me to show you?”
“That’s all right. We can find our own way,” Susan replied. “It’s safer if you stay down here.”
Nigel didn’t argue.
Susan headed up the stairs in the lead, with Stephen close behind, and Debris and Detritus bringing up the rear with a noisy clatter.
The ghost was easy to find. There was a large damp patch in the middle of the hallway with a faint smell of the afterlife, mainly mould with a sharp tang of pain, and above it floated an ethereal figure wringing their hands and weeping.
“She’s new, is she?” Susan shouted down the stairs.
“Yes,” Nigel shouted back. “We’ve lived here twenty years, and this is the first time we’ve ever seen her.”
“Are you sure you don’t want us to help her move on to a better world,” Debris said.
“Or anywhere else really,” Detritus added. “I’m not sure we could get her into heaven, not looking like that. Her hair is a dreadful mess.”
“Er, I’m not sure that . . . ” Stephen began, only to be cut off by Susan opening of negotiations with the errant magical being.
“Right.” Susan fixed the apparition with a hard stare. “So, why are you haunting this house?”
The pale woman made no reply, but just moved her lips in a soundless moan.
“I can see you’re going to be difficult,” Susan said. “That’s all right, I’ve got all day.”
“Perhaps we can help?” Debris offered.
“Though I’m not sure we’ve got any dominion over ghosts. They’re not our bailiwick, as it were,” said Detritus. “Always happy to give it a go, if you’d like.”
Debris stepped forward to look more closely at the ghost, stepped in the slime puddle, and lost his footing. He put a hand out to steady himself to no avail, crashed to the floor, putting his arm through the wall to make a large hole. “Oops,” he said.
“No, thanks,” Susan replied, not taking her eyes off the ghost. It appeared to be smirking, and that wasn’t a good sign. It would be vomiting ectoplasm next . . .
“What’s happening?” Nigel shouted.
“Just some preliminary work,” Susan replied. “There may be some slight scuffing of the paintwork, but we will take care of any damage tomorrow.”
Detritus helped Debris to his feet, dusting him down and ostentatiously checking for injuries. He murmured something to his companion, but it was all Greek to Susan, largely because it was Greek.
“I was just testing her reflexes,” Debris said.
“Yeah,” said Detritus. “She seems a bit slow.”
The entity snarled silently and poked a bony finger at Detritus, who stepped back, bumping into Stephen and treading on his toes.
Stephen bit back a swearword and pushed Detritus forward again.
“If we could all keep still for a moment?” Susan narrowed her eyes, assessing the haunting more carefully. Ah, there it was—the shimmering mark on the forehead, a sign to all who could read it that this was a supernatural entity of quite a different kind.
“Perhaps you’d like to explain why you’re passing yourself off as a ghost?” she said.
The figure drew itself up to a full seven feet, its head curling round to peer down at their little group, then stretched out long, clawed hands towards them, fingers passing through Susan’s body with a cold burn. Its mouth opened in a silent scream.
“Seen it all before,” Susan said. “And better.”
“Oh, be fair,” said Stephen. “The bad breath is quite impressive. It could melt paint at forty paces.”
“You never met the demon of Pinner.” Susan shrugged. “Now that was bad breath. It took the paint off the skirting boards and melted the carpet. It was acrylic, being Pinner, but it was still impressive.”
The demon glared at them.
“Now, are we going to do this the hard way or the very hard way?” Susan asked. “And when I say hard way, I mean hard for you. I’ve had a bad start to the day, I’m dying for a cup of tea, and I’m not in the mood to be messed around by minor demons dripping all over the hallway floor. So you can bugger off back to wherever you came from and leave this family alone and save me the effort of a full exorcism, or I can make you. Which is it?”
The demon waved its hands in the air, as if it were pleading for mercy.
“Two choices,” said Susan. “Count of ten.”
The demon shifted and swirled in an agony of indecision.
“Ten, nine, eight . . . ” Susan marked the count off on her fingers, before she could reach seven, the pale figure shifted, shrank in on itself, and then finally disappeared.
“That went well,” Stephen said.
“If you can trust it not to come back as soon as my back is turned,” Susan replied. “I’ll get the clean-up team to check up tomorrow, and sort out the watery mess while they are at it, and the hole in the wall. The technical geeks would love to get their hands on some samples to run tests on.”
Debris and Detritus said nothing but shambled after Susan and Stephen as they descended the stairs.
A nervous homeowner was waiting for them. “That sounded . . . noisy.”
“I’m sorry,” Susan said. “It wasn’t our best work, I admit. The stain on the carpet was already there, but the hole in the wall is new.”
Nigel spluttered. “That’s not good enough.”
“You are free of a ghost,” Susan returned coolly, “which was actually a demon, so it could have decided to eat you when it got bored, so a hole in the wall is a small price to pay. However, some of my colleagues will be round in the morning to help with the tidy up.”
Susan paused. Nigel said nothing.
“There’s no need to say thank you,” she said. “Come on, you lot. Let’s get out of here.”
They were followed out to the kerb by the sound of Nigel muttering something unflattering about trainees under his breath. Clearly, he didn’t want to risk the return of either the ghost or Debris and Detritus.
“Shall we smite him?” Debris said.
“Don’t tempt me,” Susan replied.
“Not our job,” Detritus said. “We’re not bad gods, tempting people from the path of good. We leave that to others.”
“Zeus,” Debris said, very quietly.
“Aphrodite,” Detritus said just as quietly.
“All of them, really,” said Debris.
“They’re just looking for an excuse for a smiting,” Detritus said.
“They’re no fun,” Debris concluded.
It was a sombre group that headed back to the warehouse in another taxi summoned by Susan. She didn’t want gods hanging round any longer than necessary, but they were harmless and good natured, if clumsy, and she had some sympathy for their position. Gods were bastards, and the problem with Debris and Detritus was that they weren’t bastardly enough.
And she didn’t have time to teach them how to be gits before she sent them home.
“Tea?” Stephen asked as soon as they were through the front door.
“Thanks,” said Susan.
“Yeah,” said Debris.
“If we could,” said Detritus.
Stephen looked at Susan, then shrugged. “Ok, tea and biscuits all round, and you can owe me a favour.”
“It’ll have to be a small one,” Debris said.
“We’re not much good,” Detritus added.
“Nonsense,” Stephen replied. “You’re just not suited to the rough and tumble of demon smiting. It’s only to be expected—you’re only trained to smite humans.”
“You’re just being kind,” Debris said.
“Yeah,” said Detritus.
They collapsed into a small heap of godly misery on the broad sofa, and watched whilst Stephen and Susan made the tea and put biscuits out on a plate for them all to share. The two of them eyed the offerings, then snaffled the Jaffa cakes.
“We will hear your prayers,” Debris said, his voice muffled by crumbs.
“Mmmph,” added Detritus.
“The bookcases,” said Stephen.
Everyone turned to look at them.
“I need more room for books,” he said. “And I can’t put up more in here without disturbing the dark magic flows. So, I was wondering whether you could, in answer to my urgent entreaty, knock through into the next universe so I can put up some extra shelves.”
“Yeah,” said Debris.
“Easy,” said Detritus.
There was a strange sense of the world pressing down on them hard, and then it eased off, and there was a dark gap between two of the bookcases about a book’s depth across, but stretching off into a dark, fathomless void.
“Cool,” said Stephen.
“Very cool,” said Susan.
Debris and Detritus perked up a bit at that.
“Maybe the other gods are missing you by now,” Stephen said.
“Maybe,” said Debris.
“We still can’t go back until we’ve answered your prayers,” said Detritus.
“You’ll just have to come up with a prayer for them to satisfy,” Stephen said. “Salting them just won’t work otherwise.”
“I can’t accept any favours from a supernatural entity. It’s against the rules—you never know when if you’ll end up in their debt if the favour is bigger than your payment, and, frankly, the forms you have to complete to record it go on for pages and pages.” Susan shook her head at the heavy burden of bureaucracy she had to carry whilst saving the world.
Stephen nodded. “It’s why I prefer to freelance. No one audits my expenses, no one second-guesses what I’ve done, and my Friday nights are my own.”
Susan flinched at the mention of expenses. “Do not bring audits into it.”
“I could always have a word with Hades,” Stephen said. “He does fall within my purview as necromancer, even if I’ve retired. A bit retired anyway.”
Debris sighed. “He’s not very fond of us.”
“Not fond at all,” Detritus said.
“So you want some leverage to bring to bear on him,” Stephen said.
“Well, now I may be able to help there.” Susan grinned the grin of someone with a good idea and a big enough lever to move a god.
The process for summoning Hades for, as Stephen put it, a friendly chat was quite simple. There was no blood involved, no chickens, no Latin incantations, and the circle was already drawn and built into the floor, which saved a lot of time.
Hades was summoned using Greek, of course.
He was shorter than Susan expected, and very hairy. He wasn’t the most godly god she had ever seen and definitely warranted the lower case nomenclature.
“Evening, Hades,” said Stephen. “Nice to see you—how’s things keeping?”
“Well enough,” replied Hades. “And why do you summon me, mere mortal? And how are things going with your young lady? Have you fed her some pomegranate seeds yet?”
“Early stages,” Stephen said, with a sideways glance at Susan. “Plenty of time for the pomegranate later, I always say.”
“Meet the mother first,” Hades said. “That’s my advice. Always meet the mother before you start sharing fruit with a desirable maiden. I’d have had a lot less grief in my life . . . ”
Debris coughed. “Hello.”
“Hi,” said Detritus.
“What are those two doing here?” Hades asked, and there was a hint of thunder and smiting in his voice.
“They need to go home,” Susan said.
“No,” said Hades.
Debris and Detritus tried to look appealing, and failed.
“I am not giving them house room,” Hades said. “Heaven isn’t big enough for the both of us.”
“I’m sure we can to some arrangement.” Stephen waved his hands in an encouraging manner. “A favour for a favour—Susan here is very persuasive. She can persuade the tits off a demon. She could persuade Persephone to stay in Hell with you for a bit longer this year, or at least persuade her mother to allow it. It’s not as if anyone would mind spring being a bit shorter this year. What with global warming and all, hardly anyone would notice.”
“My wife and I are perfectly happy with the arrangements as they are.” Hades frowned. “If you spend too much time together, the magic fades.”
Stephen snorted in disbelief, which he turned into a cough.
“That’s a shame,” said Susan. “However, I am going to have to ask you to rethink.”
Hades gave Susan a look that would have made any ancient Greek reconsider their immediate future, and their ultimate destination after death.
Susan just glared back.
“I would like to introduce you to Thomas,” she said.
A small, goblin-like creature stepped forward in the circle, very careful not to cross its protections. “Hello,” Thomas said.
“Thomas is, despite appearances, entirely human. He is our financial officer, and reviews all our expense claims,” Susan continued.
Hades raised an eyebrow, looking supremely bored and unconcerned. “And?”
“And what Thomas is good at, more than anything, is not adding up or taking away, it’s doubt,” Susan said.
Hades straightened up, standing taller and stronger outside the circle. “Doubt?” he said.
“Doubt. He reads books about atheism at bedtime, he considers the scientific method, and above all, he double-checks and cross-checks all our expenses claims. Thomas, if Thomas had a nickname, would be Thomas the Doubter.” Susan grinned, her mouth showing her teeth. “Can you guess why?”
“And what has this to do with me?” Hades asked, raising his nose and sniffing.
“Now that Thomas has met you, he will think about you all the time,” Stephen said.
“Only, it’s not that he’ll be thinking about you precisely,” Susan said. “It’s more the doubting.”
Hades flicked an uneasy glance at Thomas. “He’s seen me. Surely he’ll believe the evidence of his own eyes.”
“I’ve seen Susan’s expense claims in the flesh as it were,” Thomas said drily. “I don’t believe in them either.”
“You see, he doubts everything.” Susan gestured at Thomas. “He doubts the sky is blue . . . ”
“Actually, that’s an optical illusion,” Thomas said.
“He doubts the grass is green.”
“It depends what you mean by green.”
“He doubts whether the moon is in the sky,” Susan said.
“It’s certainly not visible at the moment, so where is your evidence?” Thomas replied.
“Thomas doubts. He quibbles. He worries away at things until he proves they are true, or untrue.” Susan’s smile was the smile of a lion that had seen something tasty in the distance and was trying to look innocent and friendly as it came closer.
Thomas’ smile was all sharp angles and abacuses, and Excel spreadsheets cross-checking to zero.
It wasn’t clear which smile was the one that tipped the balance, but Hades said, “Oh very well,” with very bad grace, and the deal was struck.
Debris and Detritus would be going home.
And good as that news was, the best part was that Thomas wouldn’t be able to claim expenses for his venture into field work: he couldn’t approve his own claims.
Susan smirked.
It was almost as if someone had answered her prayers.
About the Story
You may feel that there is a note of bitterness about expense claims. There is. If I told you about my last round of expenses, you wouldn’t believe me. Slaying demons and bullying gods is far easier than persuading my employers to pay me money that they actually owe me.
Doubting Thomas is real, if a little less like a goblin.
Antioch Grey