Chapter #26A College Application by: imaj   Two days later.
You stand at the pedestrian crossing, only half paying attention to the thrum of the traffic in front of you. The remainder of your attention is on the watcher spirit, rapidly closing on your position. As you sense it closing the final few metres, you spot a Jaguar approaching the traffic lights. The weak Catilindrian aura you are projecting shifts the lights to red just in time to stop the car.
You peer through the windows. The driver’s attention is focused on the lights. In the rear seat you spy Reeves, talking animatedly on his smartphone. You wrap your cloak round both before stepping onto the road and next to the passenger side rear door. Neither man notices as you open it and sit next to Reeves.
The lights change once more and the car picks up speed again. Completely oblivious to your presence, Reeves continues his phone call. “Oh, the Dark Stars situation,” he says, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt. “Dreadful mess. Hyde White was a decent enough chap, for a grammar school boy, but not really thrice-wise material.”
He pauses to listen to whoever is at the other end of the line.
“Ah, my apologies Magister Templi,” he resumes, contrition obvious in his voice. “I merely intended to indicate that Professor Hyde White’s projects would draw unwanted attention from the Stellae Errantes. Sooner or later those attentions were going to be focused on Hyde White himself. Some individuals, not me I have to add, but some people would say he brought his demise upon himself.”
Another break as the person on the other end talks to Reeves. He wipes a couple of beads of sweat from his forehead with one of the cuffs of his shirt.
“Yes, I dealt with the Brotherhood. Tim Stokes was sniffing round Huangdi, so I had a contact at the FDIC open a routine audit at Arthur-Bloom. Stokes headed stateside double time for that. haha! By the time he gets back to London our man will be in place at Huangdi. Boots on the ground and all that, eh?”
Reeves pauses one more time.
“Yes, thank you sir,” he replies before hanging up the phone. “Arsehole,” he mutters under his breath. Reeves tosses his phone carelessly to the car seat.
He does not notice when you pick it up and leave the car at the next red light
*****
One week later.
The building that Reeves’ phone led you to looks just like every other house in the street. Another Georgian townhouse identical to the ones on either side. The only distinguishing mark is the little brass plaque by the door - a half sunburst rising above the horizon. A brass plaque that marks it as just another gentleman’s club in a street that hosts four or five others.
Your hips sway as you climb up the steps to the door, constrained by your shiny, latex skirt. The imago you’ve adopted, that of an expensive escort, enjoys the way the skirt forces her thighs to rub together. You, however, suppress the instinct. Business before pleasure.
Past the front door you find a very traditionally styled hallway - tiled floor, wooden wall panelling and antique fittings. A young man in a very old fashioned dress servant’s uniforms peers down his nose at you. If his attitude didn’t convey his contempt enough, then his words do: “Can I help you… Miss…”
“Da,” you say, shifting the attache case of your toys and props from one hand to the other. “I have appointment with Francis St. John.”
He sniffs imperiously, holding his stare at you for a good few seconds longer than is comfortable. “In that case the First Light Society welcomes you Miss…”
“Svetlana Zakharova,” you reply, returning his stare with interest. Svetlana’s imago bridles at his attitude, refusing to back down. In this case you find it easiest to let her personality run naturally.
The servant tries to hold his gaze, but wilts after a few more seconds. “Upstairs,” he replies in a quiet voice. You let a tiny little smirk show on your face and tilt your chin a fraction upwards. “In the Quicksilver Suite.”
“I know way,” you tell him brusquely, dismissing the servant from your thoughts with the scorn he deserves as you climb the stairs.
The Quicksilver Suite is at the very top of the building, in a converted loft. The final flight of stairs is narrow and ladder-like. Past the padded door, you find the room is just as Svetlana’s memories tell you: The skylights are covered by blackout blinds and only a little natural light creeps round the edges. In the soft electric lighting , you can make out the large silken bed in the middle of the room.
Francis St. John sits on the edge of the bed, an undone bow tie hanging round his shirt collar. He looks up as you stalk across the room. Then he takes a swig of amber coloured liquid from the tumbler in his hand before running the other hand through his thinning silver hair.
“Uh, uh, uh,” you say, waving an admonishing finger as he gets up from the bed looking for a refill. Francis sinks back to the bed and runs a finger round the collar of his shirt. His trousers visibly start to tent.
You strut over to a small table at one side of the room and place your attache case atop it. Then you shrug off your jacket to reveal a starchy white blouse that clings tightly to your sizable bosom. From within your case you withdraw a riding crop. Flicking it against the side of your skirt, you approach Francis. Each step you take, you flick the crop again: Flick. Flick. Flick.
“Oh my,” he murmurs.
With a snap of your wrist you bring the crop sharply down on Francis’ shoulder, causing him to shudder and emit a low moan. “Quiet worm,” you snarl. He goes very still as you drag the tip of the crop down his body in slow sweeps, drawing closer and close to his crotch.
“Please, I,” he stutters.
You stop dead and raise a finger. “Uh..”
“Mistress,” he moans.
You lean down till your face is level with his. “Nyet,” you smirk. You tilt your head slightly till your forehead touches Francis’. Then you absorb his imago, knocking him out for a couple of minutes. He slumps back onto the bed.
You review Francis St. John’s memories as you stand back up. Three times you’ve visited the First Light Society in the last few days, in the guise of a plumber, a businessman guest and now as a Russian dominatrix. This time you’ve found what you’re looking for: The man Reeves was talking to, the Magister Templi of the thrice-wise - otherwise known as the College of Hermes.
More importantly, Francis’ memories have spilled out a number of otherwise closely guarded secrets. You now know he is part of what is referred to as the Third Order: The inner circle leadership of the College of Hermes. Better still, Francis is one of the few members of the secret society that knows the true identity of their leader, the Ipsissimus.
You clamber onto the bed as Francis starts to come to. He groans uncertainly as you position yourself, crouching on the bed with him between your legs. Francis’ eyes flutter open and he gazes up at you.
“You have been good,” you purr. “Time for reward.”
But really, what you’re thinking about is how you are going to get to this Edward Lovelace you saw in Francis’ memories.
To stop reminiscing, attend to Fi's reports in "A Short Hop" 
You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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