thinks I’m in trouble again. I throw a pencil at Simmons’ head as I pass. He ducks and gives me the finger.
I wish I could say all this was atypical of life at Delphic Division, but it isn’t. We once spent a whole week arguing about the colour of the paint for the fifteenth floor bathrooms. We split into two warring parties and eventually decided the winner with a day-long game of office Olympics.
I push the elevator button. A brass pointer ticks slowly down to the ground floor and the doors slide open. The elevator is one of those old-fashioned types and I yank the cage open and step inside, hitting the button for the top floor.
The elevator rises slowly, a muzak version of ‘I should be so lucky’ playing over tinny speakers. Armitage picks the music for the elevator, changing it every week. Before Kylie we had muzak versions of Rick Astley, Bananarama, and Led Zeppelin. She thinks it’s the funniest thing ever but nobody really knows why. We just go along with it.
The elevator bumps gently to a halt and I walk around the curve of the silo until I get to Armitage’s office. Two potted ferns flank a mahogany door bearing a brass plate with the words ‘Boss Lady’ etched into it.
I knock.
‘Come in, then!’ she snaps impatiently from inside. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Entering Armitage’s office is like stepping back in time. Everything is dark wood and leather, like a Victorian parlour. Bookshelves lined with ancient hardcovers (and one shelf of Mills & Boon). A massive leather-topped desk with a green-shaded lamp. Two high-backed reading chairs.
The place is a tip, though. Every available surface is covered with clutter: old reports, photographs, empty cigarette packets, fast food wrappers. The air is scented with cherry cigars and nectarines, her favourite fruit.
She’s busy peeling one now, plopping the skin into an overflowing ashtray.
‘I tried to call you last night. Your mailbox is so full I couldn’t leave a message.’ She frowns at me. ‘You know how annoying that is? All this bloody technology and I can’t get hold of you?’
‘Sorry.’ I was going to ask her why she didn’t just text me, but then I remember how hopeless she is at using her phone.
‘Well. You’re still alive, so I’m assuming it went well?’
I flopped down in one of the chairs. ‘I think “well” is a relative term. I survived.’
‘And Babalu-Aye?’
‘Gone. For now. I’m not going to be popular when he comes back, though.’
‘We’ll deal with that when the time comes. The bastard deserves everything he got. How did you do it?’
‘Shotgun in the face.’
‘Nice. And the kids?’
I shake my head. I hesitate, leaning forward in the chair. ‘He was selling their souls to an angel, Armitage. I saw it. The thing was . . . snorting their souls. Like it was blow.’
Armitage blinks. The skin around her eyes tightens. ‘Those bloody angels. I told you, remember? Watch out for the ones who say they’re fighting for good. They’re the ones that’ll destroy a continent in the name of their god. Remember?’
I shrug. Armitage says a lot of stuff like that. She really hates the orisha. ‘I saved the last victim, though. And I blew up the angel.’
She blinks at me, her plump face wrinkling in thought. ‘You blew it up?’
‘Hand grenade.’
‘Hah! Serves the bugger right. Any idea which angel it was?’
I shake my head. ‘No glamour. The thing was as its god intended.’
‘Ooh, look at you! I’m slightly impressed, lad. Not many can face down an angel and survive.’
‘A psychotic, high as a kite angel.’
‘As you say. Well done. And . . . I hate to ask, but . . . ?’ She raises her eyebrows at me.
‘No official presence. But . . . like I said, I used a grenade. So I did blow up the hospital a bit. But the papers said something about a gas leak, so I think we’re in the clear.’
Armitage smiles with relief. ‘Good lad. Don’t want to give that arse
I wish I could say all this was atypical of life at Delphic Division, but it isn’t. We once spent a whole week arguing about the colour of the paint for the fifteenth floor bathrooms. We split into two warring parties and eventually decided the winner with a day-long game of office Olympics.
I push the elevator button. A brass pointer ticks slowly down to the ground floor and the doors slide open. The elevator is one of those old-fashioned types and I yank the cage open and step inside, hitting the button for the top floor.
The elevator rises slowly, a muzak version of ‘I should be so lucky’ playing over tinny speakers. Armitage picks the music for the elevator, changing it every week. Before Kylie we had muzak versions of Rick Astley, Bananarama, and Led Zeppelin. She thinks it’s the funniest thing ever but nobody really knows why. We just go along with it.
The elevator bumps gently to a halt and I walk around the curve of the silo until I get to Armitage’s office. Two potted ferns flank a mahogany door bearing a brass plate with the words ‘Boss Lady’ etched into it.
I knock.
‘Come in, then!’ she snaps impatiently from inside. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Entering Armitage’s office is like stepping back in time. Everything is dark wood and leather, like a Victorian parlour. Bookshelves lined with ancient hardcovers (and one shelf of Mills & Boon). A massive leather-topped desk with a green-shaded lamp. Two high-backed reading chairs.
The place is a tip, though. Every available surface is covered with clutter: old reports, photographs, empty cigarette packets, fast food wrappers. The air is scented with cherry cigars and nectarines, her favourite fruit.
She’s busy peeling one now, plopping the skin into an overflowing ashtray.
‘I tried to call you last night. Your mailbox is so full I couldn’t leave a message.’ She frowns at me. ‘You know how annoying that is? All this bloody technology and I can’t get hold of you?’
‘Sorry.’ I was going to ask her why she didn’t just text me, but then I remember how hopeless she is at using her phone.
‘Well. You’re still alive, so I’m assuming it went well?’
I flopped down in one of the chairs. ‘I think “well” is a relative term. I survived.’
‘And Babalu-Aye?’
‘Gone. For now. I’m not going to be popular when he comes back, though.’
‘We’ll deal with that when the time comes. The bastard deserves everything he got. How did you do it?’
‘Shotgun in the face.’
‘Nice. And the kids?’
I shake my head. I hesitate, leaning forward in the chair. ‘He was selling their souls to an angel, Armitage. I saw it. The thing was . . . snorting their souls. Like it was blow.’
Armitage blinks. The skin around her eyes tightens. ‘Those bloody angels. I told you, remember? Watch out for the ones who say they’re fighting for good. They’re the ones that’ll destroy a continent in the name of their god. Remember?’
I shrug. Armitage says a lot of stuff like that. She really hates the orisha. ‘I saved the last victim, though. And I blew up the angel.’
She blinks at me, her plump face wrinkling in thought. ‘You blew it up?’
‘Hand grenade.’
‘Hah! Serves the bugger right. Any idea which angel it was?’
I shake my head. ‘No glamour. The thing was as its god intended.’
‘Ooh, look at you! I’m slightly impressed, lad. Not many can face down an angel and survive.’
‘A psychotic, high as a kite angel.’
‘As you say. Well done. And . . . I hate to ask, but . . . ?’ She raises her eyebrows at me.
‘No official presence. But . . . like I said, I used a grenade. So I did blow up the hospital a bit. But the papers said something about a gas leak, so I think we’re in the clear.’
Armitage smiles with relief. ‘Good lad. Don’t want to give that arse
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