A Knight Of The Word

John Ross went up to his apartment and stood at the window looking down at the ruins of Fresh Start, fuming. A crew from the fire marshall’s office was picking its way carefully through the debris, searching for clues. He scanned the busy streets for Andrew Wren, but the reporter was nowhere to be seen.

Why was the demon working so hard to discredit him? What did it hope to gain?

Where the Wiz was concerned, the answer was obvious. The demon hoped that by discrediting Simon, it would derail the progress of his programs. If enough doubt was cast and suspicion raised as to the integrity of the work being lone at Fresh Start and Pass/Go, donors would pull back, political and celebrity sponsors would disappear, and support from the public would shift to another cause. Worse, it would reflect on programs assisting the homeless all across the country. It was typical demon mischief, a sowing of discontent that, given enough time and space, would reap anarchy.

The more difficult question was why the demon had chosen to paint him with the same brush. What was the point? Was this phoney theft charge supposed to send him into a tailspin that would lead to an alliance with the Void? Given that the demon intended to subvert him and claim his magic, this business of manipulating bank accounts and transfers seemed an odd way to go about it.

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. It might explain the fire, though. Burning down fresh Start at the same time Simon Lawrence was being discredited would only add to the confusion.

If the plan was to bring down Simon and put an end to his programs, an attack from more than one front made sense.

He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets angrily. He wanted to walk right over to Pass/Go and deal with his suspicions. But he knew there wasn’t really anything he could do. Andrew Wren was still in the middle of his investigation. He was checking signatures and interviewing bank personnel. Maybe the signatures wouldn’t match. Certainly the bank people wouldn’t remember seeing either him or Simon.

Except, he remembered suddenly, the demon was a changeling and could have disguised itself as either of them.

He turned away from the window and stared at the interior of the apartment in frustration. The best thing he could do was to follow through on his promise to Nest and get out of town. Do that, put a little distance between himself and whatever machinations the demon was engaged in, and take x fresh look at things in a few days.

Don’t take any chances with the events of the dream.

He glanced at his watch. It was already approaching four o’clock, and the festivities at the Seattle Art Museum were scheduled to begin at six sharp.

Dropping into his favourite wing chair, he dialled Pass/Go and asked for Stefanie. Told that she was in a meeting, he left a message for her to call him.

He went into the bedroom, pulled his duffel bag out of the closet, and began to pack. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much packing to do for this sort of trip, and he didn’t have much to choose from in any case. It gave him pause when he realised how little he owned. The truth was, he had never stopped living as if he were just passing through and might be catching the morning bus to some other place.

He was reading a magazine when the door burst open and Stefanie stalked into the room and threw a clump of papers into his lap.

“Explain this, John!” she demanded, coldly, standing rigid with fury before him.

He looked down at the papers, already knowing what they were. Photocopies of the bank transfers Andrew Wren had shown him earlier. He looked up again. “I don’t know anything about these accounts. They aren’t mine.”

“Your signature is all over them!”

He met her gaze squarely. “Stef, I didn’t steal a penny. That’s not my signature. Those aren’t my accounts. I told the same thing to Andrew Wren when he asked me about it an hour ago. I wouldn’t do anything like this.”

She stared at him silently, searching his face.

“Stef, I wouldn’t.”

All the anger drained away, and she bent down to kiss him. “I know. I told Simon the wane thing. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

She put her hands on his shoulders and ran them down his arms, her tousled black hair falling over her battered face. Then she knelt before him, her eyes lifting to find his. I’m sorry. This hasn’t been a good day.”

You don’t know the half of it, he thought to himself. “I was thinking we might go away for a few days, let things sort themselves out.”

She smiled up at him sadly. ~A few days, a few weeks, a few months, we can take as much time as we want. “We’re out of a job.”

He felt his throat tighten. “What?”

“Simon fired you. When I objected and he wouldn’t change his mind, I quit.” She shrugged.