Derek

"It's all just a question of sacrifice. How much are you willing to give up to get what you want?"

"Well put, Mr Burroughs. That is the question, isn't it? Do have a seat. Mama will be with us shortly. Can I get you anything in the meanwhile?"

"Thank you, no."

The office is plushly old-fashioned, comforting and at the same time suffocatingly brown. It smells of leather and pipe smoke and Mr Sheen. The teak desk and mahogany drinks cabinet are both more than three centuries old, and every one of those years has left its mark. A telephone and fax machine seem wildly anachronistic, the scars of their installation yet to heal: plaster crumbs seep through the lacquered wallpaper around the cable punctures. Derek sets his briefcase on the floor and settles into an antique chair to wait, focussing on confidence, on projecting a sense of calm authority.

Christine Cornelius knows the power of a good entrance. She arrives trailing aides, conducting three conversations at once. Flings her jacket over the back of her chair, but doesn't sit in it.

"Tell the General I want results in the next three days or I'm shutting the project down. I own him now, he needs to taste his own bile the next time we meet. Mr Cheung will just have to wait. He's used to it. Schedule the bank at two o'clock, the Russians at four, that should give us plenty of time to get rid of the bodies. No, sell everything, I want the entire company to be nothing but a memory this time next week. Good morning, Mr Burroughs, welcome to the ACME Corporation."

The smile is wide and artificial, the handshake firm. At her gesture the flunkies are gone, carved oak door slamming heavily behind them. Grimy oil paintings of the firm's founders glower down from all sides.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Cornelius."

"Very gracious, but I assure you the pleasure is mine. Please call me Mama, everyone does."

"Mama."

"Mr Burroughs. Would you like something to drink? Brandy?"

"It's a little early in the day for me, Mama."

"No doubt. Hendrik, a brandy for me, if you would." As Managing Director, Hendrik Everson is nominally Mama's superior, but there's no mistaking the power dynamic here. Everson hands her a balloon of Remy Martin XO and she swirls it ostentatiously, but does not drink.

"You have the merchandise?"

Derek reaches for his briefcase.

"I trust the terms of exchange are acceptable? The lawyers have been over this of course, but I really hope we're at the beginning of a fruitful relationship here. Your little association has a lot to offer us -- and we you."

"I certainly hope so, Mama. We have been working up to this for some time."

"These things don't happen overnight."

"No indeed. It has been a long search."

"For us both. I don't suppose your organization would be interested in a more formal long-term affiliation? We are always looking to expand our portfolio."

"A tempting offer, Mama, but I'm afraid my partners value their independence too much."

"Alas."

Derek pulls a sheaf of papers from the case, which also contains three bottles of single malt whisky, a dozen free-range eggs and a large block of chocolate -- the best he could manage at such short notice. He pays close attention to his pulse, his breathing, his dry mouth. He has learned to suppress the sweating that might betray his nervousness, but it isn't easy, and harder still when trying to keep the mood light.

"We eventually found these pages in Cairo, hoarded by a restaurant owner. The provenance is obscure. He probably got them from a Syrian bookseller, but we have no idea where he got them. If it was not for our restaurateur's predilection for underage boys, the pages might never have been discovered."

"Everyone has a weakness."

"They do indeed."

There is a moment of silence as both parties decide not to ask "What's yours?"

Derek hands over the documents, and Mama Cornelius makes a show of looking through them.

"Good. Very good. This appears to be exactly what we need. Mr Burroughs, you are a credit to your coven."

This is the moment Derek has dreaded, and dedicated himself to. He grasps the shard of glass in his pocket, mumbles a few derisory incantations, and drives it into his palm. The words are not important, it is the intention that counts.

At first, there is nothing but pain. There was no way to practice for this; the invocation is, by its nature, a one-off. The glass slices through skin and fat and muscle, and blood pours out of the wound. He thrusts his pierced, bleeding hand in front of him, eyes clenched shut, and chants the spell out loud. Mama Cornelius is taken by surprise, but her surprise turns to anger in an instant.

"What the fuck? I don't know what you're playing at, Burroughs, but I am damn sure you're going to regret it before..."

There's a moment of implosive silence, and then the office is filled with roaring flame. For once, Mama is lost for words.

Derek flings open the briefcase, presenting the scotch and chocolate and eggs to the new arrivals. For a few moments he has their attention.

"Burroughs? You don't want us as an enemy, Burroughs. I'd like you on side but I'll crush you if I have to. Burroughs? Where are you? Where are you? OK, that's it. You're fucked, Burroughs. I'll kill you; I'll kill your whole coven!"

Mama is caught in the vortex, yags all around her. Hendrik too. Derek can barely hear either of them over the roaring in his ears. The window is only a few seconds wide, but he dives through it. The whisky is gone, the chocolate is gone, the eggs... Fire rages around, consuming those precious pages, and just a little bit more.

"Who will it be?" he asks the roaring void, pouring every last drop of his free-flowing blood into the demand; it's all just a question of sacrifice. "Who?"

The answer is nothing like what he expects.
Posted by matt at April 18, 2004 04:37 AM