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the-letter-horror-lover · 2 years

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Another Horse, Fiery Red by Javanne

Anime » Kuroshitsuji Rated: T, English, Drama & Supernatural, [Alan H., Eric S.] [Grell S., William S.], Words: 134k+, Published: May 28, 2021 Updated: Oct 27

3Chapter 9: The Stone Soup Party

After a reasonably quiet office shift, Eric ported back to check on Alan. Amalia Reyes followed with a knitting bag. They found the patient sitting up in bed with a book. "Hi, Molly. You don't need to sit with me, really. I'm just going to sleep."

"Of course, you're fine. I'm only here to let the nurse in when she comes to check on you."

"I can get the door–"

"Well, for Heaven's sake don't admit that! Lie there and look pitiable. I haven't had a moment to pick up my knitting for weeks. If you spoil this chance for me, I will stab you with all four needles. These socks were intended to be a promotion present. I'm over two months late finishing them."

Eric chuckled and eased Alan down on his pillow. "Interested in food?"

"No. The pills haven't worn off enough for me to be hungry. I can fall back on tea and biscuits later. Are my bruises fading?"

"All the colors of the rainbow, but yes, fading. I'm leaving Molly some money in case the nurse scolds ye for not eating. Have her order anything ye want, once yer appetite is back. I have to run, I'm due at the portals in five minutes. I'll be back tonight as soon as I can offload my reaps."

Eric returned rather worn at the end of his Reaping shift. Rather than drip blood and muck on his apartment floors, he used the office showers to clean up. Besides, all that gore might worry Alan. His clothing went into a labelled bag and down the laundry chute. He dressed from his locker. He went looking for Avram.

Avram Jacobs was at a desk in the Personnel area, reading student applications for next year's internships. "Ah, Eric! Bless you for getting me out of Spears' entourage. Hard shift?"

"Messy. Machine guns versus infantry and leaders who can't adjust. Avram, I need yer thoughts and experience."

"All yours for the price of this desk in perpetuity, or at least until we are all forcibly reassigned."

"Deal. You are going to replace Birch. I'm planning to bring in another Reaper soon. You'll like him. Train him for Garraway's position. That will keep you right here unless things fall apart. It'll also keep you safe from inheriting Alan's position in the future. Listen, my friend. I spoke with a demon a couple of days ago."

"Dangerous. Your question?"

"He behaved. Why? We had a civil conversation, mostly. Only one overt spoken threat. No attack, just acknowledgement of a previous encounter. He ran on about his current Contract."

"The Contract is confining or disappointing him in some unexpected way. Sounds like he's bored and lonely for talk with an equal. It's a compliment, but do not drop your guard for an instant."

"Ach, never. He's vain and likes to talk. We've met and fought before. Perhaps he finds me amusing. Also there is a bit of respect on both sides. I'm nearly his match in a fair fight. But I found it strange."

"Could it be simply that he is not hungry? If he despises his master, he could very well be snacking on the side. Not uncommon, especially when surrounded by such a banquet as a battlefield. Or for some reason he sees an advantage in courting you. He could be after one of your friends, but the Contract should be his only interest until it ends. Yes, it's odd."

"And Reaper Admin is cooperating with Infernal Admin."

"Because they're swamped. Ahh. Maybe –? Possibly. Interesting. I want to think about this and ask some questions. Go home, Eric, see how Alan's doing and get some rest."

Eric went home and found a stone-soup party in his parlor.

Alan was lying flat on a cot from the first-aid room, wrapped up in a blanket, a sign that his back still ached. He was awake and enjoying himself. Grell was near him on a kitchen chair from her own apartment. Ronald Knox sat cross-legged on a cushion at her feet. Amalia was knitting on the sofa, with Marisa Solway and Liz Brodie beside her. Iris Quirke had brought in an office chair. There was a bottle of wine and several mismatched glasses, platters of tempting nibbles, half a chocolate cake, a tea service from the Cafeteria, and a general festive air. An aroma from the kitchen indicated that the soup was not half bad for a crème de bottom shelf.

Two angels were settling themselves in chairs brought in from a common room. Eric automatically touched the knife in his vest, then dropped his hand casually.

In the middle of the room, Caroline Cortland stood with a sheet wrapped around her waist. Chichima Onayemi was in the only comfortable easy chair, working under two standing lamps, stitching a tuck into the waistband of a pair of standard-issue trousers.

"The demons're losing their edge," Iris was saying. "The Ravenings are tapering off. They are much more careful about whom they attack. If they don't achieve an immediate advantage, they back off and regroup. If the second attack goes badly, or if we come after them first, they scatter and do not return."

"The individuals are less aggressive. Their leaders are cautious," said Knox, rising to peruse the platters. He took a cracker with a bit of cheese and found a space against the far wall. "Could we have killed enough of them to make a difference?"

"Hello, everyone," Eric said as he removed his tie. The others called greetings. The knife went up his sleeve. He hung up his coat and vest. "Aye, Ronnie, mayhap, especially the lower ranks. We've been thinning them out pretty heavily." He went over to Alan. "Ye've not been into the wine, have you?"

"No, just tea. Wine's right out for another twelve hours. Help yourself, you must be parched. The tea's just been rebrewed. The soup's excellent, almost a fish chowder. Captain Elihu and Sandriel have just arrived."

Eric set the other kitchen chair by Alan, fetched himself a cup of tea and settled down with his feet planted firmly on the floor. Captain Elihu was a stranger. Sandriel was…an ally. Maybe. He seemed to tolerate Eric. He had worked with Alan, seemed to like him, but it was uncertain whether it was 'like' as a friend or 'like' as an interesting specimen to pin to a cork. Eric, long on experience and short on trust, was very much on his guard.

"I think the demons aren't so hungry as they were," said Chichima. "Here, Caro, try this on now. Gentlemen, cover your eyes please." Hands were raised around the room. There was some shuffling of fabric, and a very faint sound as Knox improved his position near the Admins who would not be carrying weapons.

"Amazing what a difference a little tailoring makes. Gentlemen, you may uncover your eyes." Cortland was now wearing a pair of trews that looked like they would not fall down. "Thanks, Chichi. Why can't London Supplies do these properly?"

"Well, my dear! London!" sniffed Grell. "British fashion is an oxymoron. What can you expect from a Division which doesn't supply suits in female sizes? But Paris is only forty miles away from Headquarters. I know a shop there that is running about fifteen to twenty years ahead of human fashion. The couturier actually likes women. Doesn't truss them up stiff as statues to keep them helpless, or drape them in ways that require constant effort to avoid indecent exposure. Understands hips and busts and waistlines. She can alter your suits to fit properly. She can also make far better clothing for your purposes, especially if you can provide a bolt of decent pre-war material. So many of the mills have gone over to producing cloth for uniforms now. She makes real pantsuits for women, practical but glamorous. Very popular among Paris Admin, who have never let Supplies dictate their clothing."

"Comfortable, and graceful, too. I love mine," said Marisa Solway, sliding down comfortably onto the sofa cushions. "And, of course, they absolutely infuriate the stuffy old fellows, which is a definite plus."

"Heaven knows they need a boost out of the mud they've been stuck in forever," added Liz Brodie, Eric's own AA, leaning to one side on the arm of the sofa. "Nothing like outrage to squirt a little aerated blood through an inactive brain."

Both admins' heads were now below the top of the sofa's backrest. Molly was ready to defend them. Every other armed guest had a clear path to the angels.

"Caro, you and Chichima should visit her. Tell the couturier you want to see a pair of Iris's two-piece beach pajamas in white silk, to be worn over a business blouse and white vest. They're loose and flowing. Plenty of room for pockets. They hide wrist and ankle knives and drape close enough not to get in the way. She'll show you a number of defensive options, pockets and sheaths. Add a pair of white boots. You'll be comfortable and unconfined and you will look like angels of mercy. Grell, have you tried that style?"

"Well, no, Mari. My brown suit is a warning. Everyone already knows it's worn by one who will not tolerate disrespect. If I changed my costume now, I'd have to reteach that lesson to a Realm full of idiots. It's enough to be out of the boring Reaper black. Sadly, the man's cut fits me. But you're right, the Ravenings aren't nearly as big as they used to be."

Alan shifted uncomfortably. "According to the French Reapers, the Ravenings in North Africa are falling off as well. Just enough to be noticeable. It's hearsay, though. Eric, can you help me to sit up?"

"Stabbity stab stab," growled Molly.

"I just want a cup of tea, Molly. I'm not trying to escape. You know I want to see how that tube you're knitting resolves itself into two socks. Eric's here to keep me honest."

So Alan was worried too. "I'll bring ye another pillow to lean on." Eric went into the bedroom, slipped Alan's knives into the pillowcase, and returned to the party. He eased Alan into a sitting position with the pillow at his back. The knives left the pillowcase for a handy spot in the blankets. Eric then poured a cup for Alan and refilled his own. "Want anything else?"

"No, thanks."

"Pill's worn off?"

Alan smiled. "Just a little drowsy. The pain is manageable and should fade away sometime tonight. I'm cleared for duty tomorrow. We can eat breakfast in the cafeteria. Don't worry, everything will probably be fine." Don't assume we're under attack. They may just have questions about yesterday.

Sorenson came in from the kitchen and handed Eric a bowl of soup and a spoon. Eric looked a question at him and received a wink. As Eric took his first spoonful, Mitch returned to the kitchen. He emerged with two more bowls of soup, which he politely presented to the angels. He then leaned casually against the wall next to the door, thumbs hooked into his belt near his knife sheath.

The soup was indeed very good. Contributions had included onion, carrot, celery, potato and a piece of whitefish. Bacon was involved. Even a bay leaf.

Clever Molly. She'd set this up to keep Alan from fretting and demanding to go into work. As the host, he could not leave.

The angels had arrived uninvited and unannounced. They'd come to see Alan and found a crowd of witnesses. Most were armed or able to summon arms. The rest knew to get out of the way. None of them were inclined to go along with a demand to get lost while the grownups talk. Eric finished the very good soup and decided to precipitate things, in case the angels intended to linger until all the other guests had left.

He looked up and tried to see his home through angelic eyes. To him it was warm, comfortable and welcoming. But to an angel? Bare. Dim. Windowless except for the kitchen. Cramped, with a low ceiling to fit the maximum number of rooms into the building. Badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. Minimal furniture, patched and faded, scuffed by many different renters. Floors and counters worn from years of scrubbing. Water stains on walls and ceiling from old plumbing leaks. Rooms were usually refurbished between tenants who seldom stayed more than five years. He and Alan had been living here for twenty-five, and frantically busy for all of it. He had a flash of curiosity; what was Bristol's housing like, if London's was not considered substandard? D'Acres had himself a job and a half, forcing Maintenance to bring that midden up to code.

His home would look like a cave, a dungeon, to an angel. But there those angels sat. They could have, should have arranged a meeting at the Branch. For some reason that was unacceptable.

They wanted something badly enough to come here to get it. Badly enough to stay when they found many Reapers instead of finding one injured man alone. Badly enough to accept a bowl of stone soup and, with it, the traditional obligations of a guest. The parlor was too small for scythe work and sword swinging, but dandy for knives. If the angels jumped up from their chairs they would bang their heads on the ceiling, possibly bringing down some plaster. They were sitting right below a discolored crack.

He looked over at Alan. Alan gave him a let me lead look. Eric smiled at him grimly. Go to it.

"Captain Elihu, to what do we owe your visit?"

Elihu was very calm for an angel pinned in a too-narrow, too-low chair with a bowl of hot soup on his lap, surrounded by strategically placed, dangerous green-eyed creatures who were suspicious of his motives. He took a deliberate spoonful of his soup to demonstrate his harmlessness. "I would happily have come for no more than this excellent soup. Delicious. However, Sandriel is concerned about your injury and the circumstances surrounding it. He has already had my description of the event and would like to hear yours."

Alan inclined his head. "Of course. I have not yet supplied a written report, but I believe Senior Sorenson has, and he was an eyewitness. I am sure Director Spears would be pleased to send you a copy for your files."

"I would very much appreciate that," said Sandriel. "I would also like to request a copy of your own report when it is written. But now, please, tell me everything that happened, from before the attack to the point where Elihu dismissed the offender."

Alan tried to put his teacup on the floor, but could not bend that far. Eric caught it before it fell and set it under the cot out of the way, then placed his mug and soup bowl beside it. Alan waited until Eric had risen to a standing position, then laid his hands on his lap.

"I was called to the site of an airship bombing raid. I had located a Reap under a heap of rubble. I reviewed the life records, snipped them away and gathered them in, and offered the soul up for judgement. All absolutely by the Book."

The Reapers all nodded.

"The soul was much stained, the judgement severe. But the records showed difficult circumstances and an act of selfless courage at the end. I offered these to the Light, and the soul was granted one more chance, committed to the Library for eventual rebirth rather than to Hell."

The Reapers all nodded. So did the angels.

"Suddenly I was cursed by an angel behind me. He objected to my plea against the initial judgement. As I gathered in the soul, I was struck from behind. I thought it was a demon until I stood and turned. The angel was raising his sword. I pinned his boot to the ground to limit his range of attack. I caught the bottom of his shield and rammed it up into his face. Mister Sorenson was coming to scythe him from the side but halted his attack when Captain Elihu caught the angel's sword arm and stopped the fight. I wish to state that the angel's whole intent was to destroy me."

Sandriel said quietly, "Senior Sorenson. Please tell me exactly what you saw."

Mitch detached himself from the wall, standing foursquare in front of the only exit.

"Sir. I saw my reaping partner doing his duty to a soul awaiting judgement. An angel nearly twice his height, in standard field uniform, armed with the customary spiked shield, fiery sword and heavy boots, approached Senior Humphries. The angel shouted at him. The angel kicked him, lost his balance for a moment on the rubble, regained his stance and raised his sword.

Mister Humphries had gotten to his feet. He jammed his scythe through the angel's left foot into the ground. The angel again lost his balance. Mister Humphries caught the waving shield and drove it into the angel's face.

"I stepped up to gut the bastard, but Captain Elihu intervened. The fight stopped. No help was called for either party's injuries. The angel was freed to seek medical aid. Mr. Humphries sought treatment only after he had completed his end-of-shift duties. He was given pain medications which he could not take before giving formal instruction to the offending angel's entire flight. For details of his injuries, contact Dr. Theodore Collins at the Academy. All this I saw and have attested to."

Sandriel looked at Elihu. Elihu winced. "True, sir. Mister Humphries, I extend my humblest apologies. I did not take into account the differences in physical strength between angels and reapers. I should have summoned medical help for you, and requested your services once you had fully recovered."

Alan shrugged wearily. "The lecture probably had more impact delivered on the same day. Captain Elihu, I am sorry for your difficulties. I do not blame you for any of this. General Artois has repeatedly referred to me as that worrisome little man. I appear to have become the same to you. My apologies."

He turned to Sandriel. "This isn't going to just disappear under the nearest rug, is it? Because you don't know how many Flights have been sent out half-trained, or where they may be serving. Are you checking Garrisons for reports of angels with non-demonic wounds? Looking for official Branch complaints of angelic assault or interference? All quickly and quietly filed away?"

"This will not disappear," Sandriel affirmed. "I cannot yet say that it will not happen again, for as you say, we must find out which flights are undertrained and where they have been posted. However, no further Flights will be activated without full training. Would you be willing to give that lecture to other flights?"

"If you can schedule it with the Academy and my superiors. Your own instructors could read the same words from the same Book. Remember, Sandriel, I am a Reaper and forbidden the Light. I cannot come into the Divine Realm to teach. I know the Auditorium's seating is uncomfortable for beings so much larger than our own students, but I don't know anywhere else that would be any better…wait, maybe there is. The London Lab had an entry into the Divine Realm. If that's still there, I could stand on the Reaper side and you could seat your students on the Divine side."

"Their comfort is not the issue," said Sandriel, in a tone that boded no good for whole hosts of undeserving underlings.

"Something interesting happened to me yesterday," said Eric, drawing all attention to himself to give Alan a rest. He looked Sandriel in the eye. "A demon approached me on the battlefield. We sat together for a time. We had a civil conversation. We parted without a fight. No harm done on either side. Compare him to your young angel. Tell me, who is the enemy, and who the ally?"

"A fair question, Mister Slingby. I shall be asking it of many Celestials who are responsible for training the young. This will stop. I swear unto you that this will stop."

"And Alan will not become one of those reapers who just suddenly vanish without a trace?"

"You presume, Reaper!"

"I do," said Eric. "Archangel."

Sandriel's glare eased to a gaze. "Your worrisome little man is safe from me. Be assured, Mister Slingby, that he is valued. For lo, he holdeth up the mirror, and showeth us that we must change. To punish him for that would make us less than we were created to be, are required to be. And your need to defend him reminds us that we need to become better than we are."

"Ouch!" said Knox. "Dim it a bit, guv'nor, our eyes can't abide the glow."

Sandriel damped down the angelfire that had filled the room. "Sorry. Better?"

"Ever so. Ta."

"Would you like some more tea, sir?" offered Miss Solway.

"No, I thank you. We have all that we came for. I have a great deal of work to do, and I would hate for Captain Elihu to be listed as missing in action. Thank you all for allowing us to join this delightful party. The soup was excellent and the company charming."

The angels stood, carefully stooping under the low ceiling, and flashed away home.

"Whooof," said Sorenson.

"Drat, no fight," said Grell.

"Archangel?" said Iris.

"Yes, but not one of Michael's army. Did you notice how he slipped into archaic formal speech for just a moment?" asked Alan. "He has his own agenda, which he pursues around and through all that we're involved in. The Forces Militant just stand aside and stay out of his way."

Eric said, "Let's get their chairs back to the common room. Good thing they remembered to keep their heads down." He reached up to pat the cracked ceiling where they would have struck their heads if they'd stood up straight. The plaster promptly gave way in patches and showered him with a discolored mix of sand and gypsum.

"Looks like the folks upstairs let their bathtub overflow a few times," offered Knox. Eric shook himself and sneezed.

"Alan, me Light, I think it's time we had some repairs scheduled."

"No. We have to move. Angels have never intruded on Association Housing before. Housing has to be instructed to convert this apartment to storage. It won't be safe for residents." Alan's anger was beginning to show through his layers of control. "They knew this address. Where did they learn it? With whom will they share it? Someday, and I think it's inevitable, I may point out something the Angels cannot forgive. We have to go, and go soon, and make sure no others are endangered"

Marisa Solway disentangled herself from the sagging couch. "I will contact Housing first thing tomorrow. They will not fob me off with a roach ranch full of spiders, or linens hosting the mildew of the ages. Meet with me in the morning; you two will move your duffels to a double room in another building – I'll have one assigned – and you will not return here. When I have finished with Housing, we'll go over the listings I think are acceptable. You'll pick out the place you like best. Then we will look at the catalog to select furniture. When your new flat is ready, shall I have them pack up your kitchen? Or do you want to start fresh?"

"Uh, Mari, we both Reap tomorrow. Spears –"

"I'll fix that too. I've learned from you, Alan. I will explain what has happened, what is going to happen, and when I'm done, he'll put his signature on everything I give him. He doesn't trust angels either. Grell, dear, you do have such exquisite taste. Would you advise me as to curtains, because there will be windows, and colors?"

"And a rug or two," said Liz Brodie, "for extra quiet and warmth. Eric and Alan have the rank to request comfort and a regular cleaning schedule."

"Comfy chairs. More room for parties," added Knox.

"Tomorrow it is," said Eric. "But it's getting late. I will leave you to it. Alan needs to sleep off the last of the pain pills. I'm completely worn out. Keep on as long as you like, just turn off the stove and shut the door when you go."

"I will claim your sofa for tonight," said Grell. "They might come back. I think the Captain was still holding your soup bowl."

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10: Movin' right along

The day dawned far too early, as so many inconsiderate mornings tend to do. Alan woke, washed and dressed, put the kettle on, and packed his duffel. One of the harder rules; that Reapers had no homes, but only billets; they served where they were sent. They must be ready to move on a moment's notice. At least this was not reassignment, but only relocation within their own Branch. Still. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years, with Eric. He asked no greater blessing. Just more of the same for as long as possible.

There was nothing much here to take, of course. Everything belonged to Housing, except a particularly soft blanket he'd bought one icy day. Nothing at all but memories. He'd get a box from the Ops Admins for the few kitchen tools he didn't want to lose, if he and Eric couldn't fit them into the duffels.

He heard shuffling in the bedroom and a curse as Eric tripped over one of his shoes. A warm rush of love flooded his heart. He poured tea. All the milk had gone into last night's soup, but there was sugar left.

"Good mornin', me Light. Ah, tea, thank you. I'm packed up. Yer blanket?"

"Right here. Is there anything in the kitchen you want to keep? I put our tea tin in my duffel, and the ladle, and our kitchen knives."

"I'd like to keep me teapot. It's nothing special, but it feels like home. I can get it in me bag. Let me see if Grell's still on the sofa, we owe her the last cup at least."

Alan poured the last of the tea into their only unchipped mug, rinsed the brown stoneware pot and wedged it into Eric's duffel.

"When we get into the office, I'll find a box. I'll wrap the teapot in my blanket and tuck the kitchen tools around it. We can store it in a corner until we are assigned a new apartment. We won't need them until then. My ivy can go in my office window; it's shade tolerant."

"Good. Grell? Good morning. Tea on the table. We're gone. Help yourself to anything ye like, but there's not much here. Thanks for staying. See you in the War Room."

"No, Eric, wait. Remember the soup bowl. The angels have given themselves an excuse to come back. Grell shouldn't be here alone. We'll buy her breakfast. Come on, we need to get out."

"Grell? Rise and shine. Levitate and glitter, O child of the rosy-fingered dawn."

"Sink and rust, you heartless barbarian. I'm up. I'm going home to wash up and put on my face. I'll meet you for that breakfast. You owe me big for the lumps on that sofa."

Alan went from his Reaping shift to the Academy. After discharging all his duties there, he walked over to the Academy's infirmary. Dr. Collins was waiting for him. "Strip. Hospital gown. Up on the table. Lie down on your belly. Does this hurt? Does this? Cramping or aching? Blood in your urine still? Damn angels. The bruises are still visible. They should have been gone by now. Any problem with the hip joint or lower ribs? Good. Turn over. Looks clean. Stand up. Still favoring that leg a little. Sit and drop the gown. Raise arms above your head. Turn right from the waist. Now left. Twice-damned angels. Let me listen to your lungs. Inhale…hold…exhale. Again. Good. Heart. Good. You can get dressed."

Alan obeyed. "Any marks?"

"No. Wouldn't be visible yet anyway. Are you sleeping comfortably? If you need pain relief, try a warm compress and a stiff drink. The pain meds are not what you need right now. Some are addictive, others encourage internal bleeding. Gentle stretching exercises, no combat classes until all stiffness and pain are gone. Continue to make your reaping partner do the heavy lifting. It's outrageous that you are reaping at all, but I understand the necessity. I think you will be back to normal in another two days with no further problems."

"I need to be sure."

"Perfectly understandable. Come back next week. We'll know then."

"Is there any progress with the research?"

"No. But it's fully funded. The Higher Ups are solidly behind it. Staffing problems, you know. Heaven forbid that they be required to leave their desks for fieldwork. Scares 'em green. Go home and rest."

Back to the office, to meet with Senior And-Don't-You-Forget-It Solway, flushed and victorious from her battle with Housing. "Alan, come look at these listings. You and Eric have been entitled to an upgrade for years. Of course, you weren't notified. I picked Housing up and wrung them out. Great fun. Eric, come over here and sit down. There are some very nice flats in neighboring buildings which are pretty much ready for occupancy.

"But if you don't mind a longer wait and a double port to work, there are other places available. Since Bristol Director D'Acres still lives in London with his wife, we thought you might also consider living farther away. Might make you harder for the angels to find. Have a look."

"Ach, we were notified. Just didn't see the point. We were comfortable enough. Only there to sleep, mostly. Also in earlier years it was all we could afford."

"Cost is still a consideration…"

"Alan, it's only a consideration if Will keeps rejecting yer expense sheets for the Thursday Night gatherings at the Scythe and Skull. Since the whole Realm directly benefits from yer work there, I think it's time he ponied up – especially since there are funds set aside for it in the Budget. They're still there. He's just holding them back, waiting for horrible emergencies to crop up. Well, now one has. Mari, can you and Liz get Brock to release those funds? Admin can put pressure on Will that Operations can't."

"Sounds like a possibility. Also sounds like fun."

"Now, me Light, look at this listing; a wee cottage in the Lake District near Ambleside. Gardens all round to visit. Beautiful and quiet. Unused since the Reaper there moved to Kendal."

"Too far."

"Nah. Will himself said it. Location's irrelevant if we have a portal. How d'ye think Roland gets to work?"

"Oh. Well. Pros; lovely, quiet, and our presence endangers no other Reapers. Cons: maintenance, and no allies near if we're attacked. Actually, Eric, it's too pleasant. We're likely to have to move again. I'd rather have a place I won't regret leaving."

"Well, then, over here in H Block, here's one on the top floor that's bounded by storage rooms. Probably intended for a Maintenance manager. Quiet. No neighbors on either side if we're visited again and have to fight our way out. Single and double rooms on the floors below. Mostly newly promoted Seniors. The angels probably won't look there."

"Same layout but slightly larger than ours, and it does have windows. I think if we are found, we should agree not to fight – just port out separately to the fifth floor bullpen to get help. Maybe an alarm we could set off to clear the rest of the building."

"Ah, but then ye have to tell everyone what the alarm means. Our location becomes public knowledge. Mari, can ye have this one set up quietly? Utilities turned on and a cleaning? No point in tarting the place up until we've been there a month without being chased off."

"Eric, yesterday's visit might have been an emergency." Alan's temper was emerging. "But if they show up again, uninvited, in Branch housing, invading peoples' private living quarters, then it's harassment and trespassing, and endangerment of bystanders. I will wind Will up like an arbolest and aim him at Madame Administrator. I suspect even Sandriel will back off if she gets the Higher Ups involved in this. She can escalate this to Azrael. He definitely outranks Sandriel and may outrank his boss.

"Mari, I want fresh paint and the largest size bed, extra-long, with a new mattress. If the ceilings are stained, make them fix the roof and replaster. No leaks in the plumbing. Hot water sufficient to fill a large tub twice, even if they have to install a separate heater. The kitchen stove must be fully functional. Otherwise, standard basic setup. Don't let them charge us for repairs they should have made when the previous tenant left. Occupancy to begin upon approval of the work. Further enhancements can be arranged if we're still there in six months."

Mari gathered up the listings. "I'll start them working today. I've explained to them why this is a rush job. They are treating it as a special request for the accommodation of visiting officials, so don't be surprised if you see that on the work orders. It means the setup will be expedited and a few extra amenities provided. It also means that your names are nowhere on the paperwork. For the time being, I've a double room for you in the same block, second floor, north end. It's ready for occupancy now. Here are the keys. If you want to drop off your box of personal items, you can do it any time."

"Might as well do it now."

"Mari, when we move into the new apartment, can ye arrange for us to keep the keys to the double room? So if we get another visit, we have a place to stay until another apartment opens up?"

"Yes, I think so. Because of the war, housing is not as crowded as it was."

Alan turned to the business of the day. First, of course, was paperwork; the incident report on his angelic assault for Spears. He laid it out carefully, making sure that no pertinent point was omitted. Then he crossed out few bits of unnecessary complaint, made a clean copy, and took it to Spear's Administrative Assistant.

To his surprise, he was announced and ushered into Spear's office. He was pointed to a chair, one of only medium discomfort. Spears was not pleased, but he was not blaming Alan. Spears read the report carefully. He picked up another – Sorenson's version – and reviewed it, then reread Alan's. Spears then laid both reports down, edges meticulously aligned. Silence. Then a finger began to tap the desktop.

Spear's default state was anger. He was controlling it, but right now he was tightly wound and half-cocked. Alan would not have to prompt him. Marisa Solway had him primed, loaded and locked; all that was needed was a deserving target, and Will was an expert at picking his shots. Moreover, he accepted Alan as a superb spotter.

"Humphries. I have already received an apology for the behavior of the angel who assaulted you in the field. His punishment will be severe but not extreme. I am assured that there will be no further such incidents from his Flight. We will, of course, pretend to believe these assurances. We will also remain alert for any future attacks from angels who do not agree with this message."

Will sat back. "Never in the known history of the Division has Housing been invaded by denizens of a different Realm. Offices, yes, by demons in the sixth and thirteenth centuries. Housing, never. I have reports from Knox, Sorenson, Sutcliff, Reyes, Quirke, Solway, Brodie, Onayemi, and Cortland on the gathering in your apartment. All agree that your threshold was crossed without invitation. I have spoken to Housing. They are furious. They will submit their own protests.

"While the Divine Realm has every responsibility and right to investigate an unwarranted attack by an angel on a reaper, there are existing protocols which have been ignored. There are many meeting rooms with high ceilings designed for this purpose. The Scythe and Skull has a banquet room expressly designed for meetings with Angels who find the Branch's meeting rooms insufficiently luxurious, or have reason to feign informality.

"Captain Elihu is not to blame. He was under orders from Sandriel, whose rank is unknown but obviously high. You will now tell me what that rank may be."

"Seraph, I think," said Alan. "He's not in Azrael's employ, or we'd know his exact position. He's working with Azrael's permission, though. He belongs to one of the other top archangels. Probably Raphael, the Angel of Healing. Eric saw Sandriel give a boost to my recovery after Anders shot me. The doctors say that my survival was due to angelic intervention."

Will's anger dissipated. "Not somebody we want to alienate permanently, then. He's going to be a busy fellow when the current catastrophes are over. Is he junior enough to act on impulse? Did he feel the situation too urgent for protocol? Still, a protest must be made. We must be safe in our billets, as the angels and the demons are safe in theirs. As much as I would enjoy registering a vigorous protest, I think that this evidence is best presented formally to Madame Administrator. She is better placed and more experienced. This is far too High for a mere Branch Director."

Will turned a cold gaze upon Alan. It was not at all his standard glare.

"The assault upon you is Azrael's issue. The assault upon your home was made by an angel not of Azrael's hierarchy. This is going to be a matter between two of the Highest. Sandriel is already in far more trouble than we could ever arrange. He's overstepped his authority and he's interfered in Azrael's business. His defense is his concern. Uriel is doubtless already making life miserable for the new Flights and those who trained them. No, we should only present the facts for Madame to send upwards. We cannot do better than to watch the fireworks from a safe place below.

"As to the possibility of escalation of hostilities between our Realms; it will not happen. Too many Reapers have been lost already. The safe and orderly collection of souls is commanded by One above archangels. We in Collections tend to forget the Voice and the Sword that lies in the combined Administration of all realms."

Will actually chuckled. "Your expense reports from your Thursday Night frolics have been countersigned and submitted. I believe I shall ask Grell to find a suitable housewarming present for you. You have provided me with considerable amusement, both now and in the near future. I think such behavior should be encouraged, don't you? Go, Humphries, and tell your insubordinate partner that I want reports on that party from both of you. On my desk in ninety minutes, for inclusion in the packet for Madame."

Alan went back to his office, closed the door, sat down and took a moment to breathe. Will had learned to hold his temper. To think through his anger. Will was going to be a Power someday, a very good one. Alan gave himself time to recover. Will had laughed. Terrifying.

Alan picked up the phone. "Eric, Will wants an event report on the party last night, on his desk by 15:30. No, I'm fine, fine, just a bit of a shock. Tell you later."

11: I am going to hit somebody for this

Alan put down the box and looked at the two narrow beds. "I am going to hit somebody for this."

"I thought ye got along well with Sandriel when ye worked with him. He even helped with your healing when you got shot."

"He did. I think he'd be angry if any angel broke the Law. I think he was particularly upset that I was the one attacked. I think he did not want to wait until I was back in the office to get my side of the story. But, Eric, he crossed our threshold without invitation, and he brought an officer of the London Garrison with him. Sooner or later that entire Flight will know where we live. Some of them will blame me for whatever sentence is passed on the squab who attacked me. Immature angels can be just as stupid as immature humans. We've lost our home. We're tucked away in basic housing. With single beds too short for you. Right now I am extremely annoyed."

There was a knock on the door frame.

"Mister Humphries?"

"Mister Slingby?"

Two men peered in through the open door. "You're living here now? Anything we can help with? We live right across the hallway."

"Smithfield and Ten Hagen. Good to see you. Yes, we're here temporarily. Just moving in."

Ten Hagen looked around at the bare quarters. "Oh, bother. Just a moment."

"I've got it," said Smithfield, and vanished.

"We'll fix you up," said Ten Hagen, "Hold on a second." There was a rattle and several clangs from across the hall. Ten Hagen pulled the mattresses from the beds.

Smithfield returned with four large metal devices around one wrist. "We always keep a few C-clamps around. It's the war, you see. An awful lot of people don't sleep well. Doubling up with your partner keeps the nightmares down. So we bolt the bedframes together. Still pretty narrow but it works. Now we just toss the mattresses back on— oof— and put on the bottom sheets as normal… There. Then you put on the top sheets sideways, and the blankets, there you go. It might be a little short for you, Mister Slingby, you can ask for an extra-long bed. Or you can go shopping in the rooms that have gone empty. Just tell Housing if you swap furniture, so they can adjust their records."

"I have a larger blanket to put on top", said Alan, popping open his box. "Here we go."

"Oh, nice. If you put that box at the end of the bed and pile your duffels on top, Mister Slingby's feet will be supported."

"Ach, we're not in the office. It's Eric and Alan. When are the cleaners and laundry pickup scheduled?"

"Then it's Smitty and Dutch, and that would be Tuesday for both."

"Will Housing complain about the beds being clamped together?"

"No. They did get shirty about it the first time, but the residents had just had a really bad shift, and they erupted like Krakatoa," said Smitty. "We demonstrated that the frames were undamaged and easily uncoupled. They wrote it into the rules as an acceptable modification."

"D'ye not have an ombudsman here?" rumbled Eric.

"Three of them in two years. Lost in France." Dutch sighed. "We looked around for a resident who isn't doing battlefields. We asked Mister Jacobs. He and Fairbairn live on the fourth floor. He agreed, and Housing agreed, so we do have a spokesman with some life expectancy. Housing's been really accommodating since then, though."

"Avram's a good man who believes the best of everyone he meets. Nobody wants to disappoint him."

"Everybody's grandpapa, isn't he?"

"If yer grandsire carried an axe and three knives, aye."

"We've set up a small common room for this floor of this wing. It's at the end of the corridor. I've installed a hot plate so we can brew tea, there's better chairs and lighting," offered Smitty. "Card and board games whenever anyone has a spare hour or can't sleep. Rules are, leave it clean and replace anything you use up. We all contribute the occasional box of pastries or tins of tea. Werther's candy bowl's still there in a place of honor. Tradition says it can never be less than half full."

"We'll likely not be here very long, but we'll be happy to contribute. Did something happen to Werther?"

"Missing for some time now. Not listed as Lost. His glasses are out of range. He might have been temporarily transferred or seconded to a foreign unit. Or he's in a hospital somewhere."

"A good man," said Alan. "I'm sure he'll be back soon. Smitty, we're probably going to live here sporadically. Right now we're waiting for an apartment to be painted and patched. We may have to move every so often, and this will be our home between homes. Don't be surprised if we suddenly appear or disappear, okay? And don't give out our addresses to anyone, please."

"Angels. We heard. When Angels never set foot in the Reaper Realm outside the plusher meeting rooms and bars. We say nothing to nobody, fine. And we watch out for snoopers," said Dutch.

"When you move out, let me know," grinned Smitty. "I'll put a Franklin portal lock on your door. You'll set the code yourself and warn the cleaners to stay out. When you return, you'll need to dust the place, but you'll know that nobody's been fossicking around in there."

"Can you do that for our apartment, when it's ready? I really like that idea," said Eric. "We'll pay for the devices and your labor in whatever currency you prefer."

"Sure, but clear it with Housing first. Arrange to let Maintenance in. They won't like retrieving a cleaning crew from the Amazon jungle. I'd rather not have them angry with us. We have an extensively modified room and don't want to be evicted."

"What if someone tries to kick the door down, rather than guess the code or jimmy the lock?"

"Same jungle, twenty feet up, over a river full of toothy fish. Plus one-third of the floor's residents rolling out of bed spoiling for a fight. Soundproofing's not that good here."

"Can the boobytrap move with us from place to place? If Alan and I are lost without giving anyone the code, can it be defused?"

"Sure, it's removeable. They'll need me to do it, or Cole, or Franklin. You might seal your code in an envelope and give it to a trusted noncombatant. You'll want to change it occasionally."

"Wait a minute…" Alan paused. Dutch and Eric recognized his expression and grinned. Smitty was curious but silent.

"Ah. What if those locks could be mass-produced? Fitted on all the doors in Housing? No more worries about invasion. Or, at least, unwanted visitors would be confined to the hallways. Smitty, could that be done? Or should I ask Franklin? Do you inventors get a royalty when your designs are produced and sold? I think you should. Supplies might use them on storerooms. Medical on drug cabinets. Scythes on metal storage. Have them all route intruders to a room in deepest Admin, where Security can ask 'em their business? Maybe fit that room with those porting preventers, in case one or two of the intruders are Demonic?"

Eric cackled. "Deep, aye. A cold, damp deep. One dim light. Chained upside down, eye to eye with a hungry rat of unusual size. Never to be freed until they've spun gold from a rotting pile of moldy paper. Doomed forever to duplicate, cross-reference and file the reports of centuries past."

Alan gave Eric a worried look. Smitty looked impressed. Dutch looked appalled.

"Well, the demons would feel right at home, wouldn't they? Some of them might sign on with Admin. And wouldn't it be embarrassing for the poor sod who came in too drunk to punch his code? And the angels. They'd flash off home with the stuff of nightmares imprinted behind their eyes."

"Ah, perhaps it might be better to work on a version which would cover the whole building. Or simply key on London glasses...let me think about it," said Smitty. "I should start by buying Les and Donnie a drink. They're the original designers."

"Operations, Humphries speaking."

The line snapped and crackled. A call from the Continent.

"Humphries? Burns. I've a message from Fancher...what, nurse? Tell her I'll fill out the forms when I'm off the phone. When I'm off the phone. Not until I'm off the phone, lady. (Unintelligible scolding.) When I'm done, lady, only a minute. (Louder unintelligible scolding.) Alan, you still there? Charlie says...Lady? Go away. There is not one single solitary thing you can offer here that is any better than a few hours in his own bed and a trip to London Spectacles. Alan? Listen, I'm at Medical Waystation 138. Charlie's blind from a bad Reap. He says the Reap didn't go to the Light. The Light came to the Reap like a lightning strike. Charlie says the Reap told him to report to you, one word, but the staff here won't let him. He says 'Matthias.' He says you'll know what it means, he doesn't."

"Matthias? Oh, my. Thank you. Do you need help they can't give? Do you need me to pull rank?"

"Nah. Some Admin type is demanding paper before treatment. Pure power game. I bet there's a new boss here who's trying to build a hardass rep by instituting a list of stupid procedures." (Outraged clucking.) "Needs to be reported because it's delaying patient care. If I bring Charlie to the portal, we can get to the Academy hospital for prompt attention."

"Jonas, hold fast. I'm sending help." Alan hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket and ran for his door.

"Mitch!" Sorenson leaped up from his desk. "We've got an Admin problem at a surgical outpost, Medical Waystation 138. You and Mallory are going to bring Charlie Fancher to our emergency-care room here and then take him to the Academy Hospital. Be ready to counter interference from the staff.

"Bradshaw, call Dorrie Depoy. I want an Admin with Auditing training. Then please alert whoever is working the first-aid room. We'll be returning with an injured Reaper. Blindness due to overexposure to the Light." Alan drew on his jacket and snugged his bolo tie. Dora DePoy appeared from her office.

"Dorrie, I've a report of Admin problems at a medical waystation that may be interfering with emergency care. It might be just a complaint from an irate partner, or it might be that care is denied pending paperwork. Can you come to investigate, or send along somebody you trust?"

Mitch Sorenson had long ago stopped trying to restrain his boss's temper. His job was to go, protect, kill a few mannerless beings if necessary, and bring his boss back intact.

Dora DePoy was a century older, aged in oak and tannin. "Alan, stand down. That is a battlefield destination. Madame Administrator will have any scraps of your hide that are left when Spears and Slingby are done with you. I will go with Mitch. Mitch and Mallory will be right back with Senior Fancher. I'll sort things out at the Waystation. We don't know who is in charge over there. If they are truly withholding patient care in favor of documentation, we need to go straight to Auditing and the senior medical staff at the Academy Hospital. Mister Bradshaw, if I do not return or contact you within the hour, alert Sarah Goodfellow in Auditing. Get a written report from Senior Burns. Alan, be ready to call in Doctor Collins if necessary."

Alan led the strike team to the War Room, asked Tomkins to dial up the Waystation, and watched his people step through the Portal. He walked over to the emergency-care room, now located next to the War Room. The nurse was waiting at the door. "Nurse, we expect a patient with Light-blindness. Sounds like he's otherwise unhurt, but please check him over?"

"Yes, Senior. Then I'll shoot him over to the Academy Hospital for Doctor Warburton to examine. She's the expert on eye injuries."

Alan returned to the War Room just as his war party stormed back through the portal. Sorenson was carrying Fancher pick-a-back, DePoy had Burns' arm, and Mallory followed as rearguard. Fancher's eyes were bound with a handkerchief. Alan simply held the door while Sorenson swept through. As the nurse took over, Alan turned to Mallory. "Anybody stupid enough to try to follow you here?"

"No, not quite. Pity. They need the kind of beating they'd get if they tried." Sorenson gestured to the Security personnel lining the walls, waiting for excitement. "But London has a reputation."

Dorrie waved Burns off to join his partner in the medical room. "I'll take care of this, Alan. Classic case of a good worker mishandling a sudden promotion. Thought she had to prove dominance over former equals by nit-picking the rules. Co-workers object, new boss feels threatened and retaliates, subordinates begin malicious compliance. Auditing will be over there in ten minutes Medical will send a replacement management team in fifteen." Dorrie stalked off to her office to call down retribution upon the Waystation.

Alan returned to the first-aid room. The nurse was tidying up. "They've all gone through the Hospital portal, Mister Humphries. Senior Fancher is otherwise unhurt. I gave him a cool compress under a blindfold and sent him straight to Doctor Warburton. Senior Burns went with him. I expect Seniors Sorenson and Mallory to hand them off and return soon."

"Thank you, Nurse, for your care. Well done."

Alan returned to his desk. No point in porting to the hospital and getting in the way of the doctors. He had two classes to teach and some student counselling. After that was done, he could step over to the hospital.

So. Matthias had been called home.

His oldest son was probably on the same battlefield. Have to look him up in the Death List… there he was. The Angels were calling up their reserves. Alan added a note to warn whoever might have to Reap him. The boy wasn't an angel yet, but the Light would rejoice to see him. Reapers, protect your eyes.

The Angels were losing troops. I warned them, for all the good it did. Just like the Reapers…and the demons…would this war grind to a bloody stalemate like the human war was doing?

That left Matthias' wife and her twins in the Human Realm. Check with Will. Was that a violation of the contract between the Angels and the London Reapers, which specified protection of that family? Will had forbidden Alan any contact with them, a rule Alan had skirted for years – just checking, because he felt responsible. The second son was old enough to be in basic Army training. Probably the daughter was already training as a nurse or a driver. That would leave the wife alone in an area that was beginning to see vicious gang activity…no. The first thing Matthias would have done would have been to visit his family. If the genius loci had been slacking off, Matthias would have stuffed him into the rain barrel and reported upwards. It might not have done any good, though.

Report to Will anyway. He would have many uses for the knowledge. And he must check on the wife weekly, somehow, if he could duck away from his minders. It would be inexcusable for him to expose one of his bodyguards to Will's displeasure.

Bradshaw tapped on his door. "Senior Sorenson's back, sir. He's waiting to escort you to the Academy."

Alan picked up his notes and books. "Thank you." He joined Sorenson. They walked toward the portal. "After student counselling, I want to check on Charlie."

"No need, sir, he'll be home asleep. Doctor wants to see him in three days. When he's ready, Spectacles will give him a pair of tinted glasses. Mallory will give you the full report when you have time."

"I do have an appointment with Doctor Collins today, shouldn't take but a few minutes."

"You're clean. You can stop fretting."

"Thanks. I lost control of the Records for a moment when the angel attacked. How many now?"

"Fifty-three that I know of. Doubtless many more are hiding it. No reports from the Eastern Front or North Africa. They're keeping mum. We've been told to be silent. After this discussion, I shall be. Unless the bastards endanger a patient of mine."

"Have we any treatment at all?"

"No. We've been moving them into noncombatant roles; monitors, orderlies, portal management. A lot of them ask to drive ambulances or supply lorries. We don't allow that for the obvious reasons. Most of them agree when they think it through. They resist Admin and desk duties; denial. But I'm sure you remember. Research is talking about scything a volunteer and reincarnating him. But they don't know what they will get back, you see? Could be a blank slate, a person with no memories, having to start again at the Academy, years away from battle readiness. Or a body with no soul to animate it, the soul having been claimed. Or a revived Reaper whose curse persists in the new body."

"I was – "

"A special case. Not going to happen again. We asked. We can't replicate what was done to you. We need a way to treat large numbers quickly. But it isn't a disease. Vaccines won't do it. We need a way to break the curse without harming the patient. You're clever. You know people. Think about it."

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12: A New Home

Definitely this apartment had been intended for a manager in the support services. Unlike the Collections agents, the Admins were allowed stability. There was a bookcase begging to be filled; a comfortable chair waiting to receive the reader, a lamp to light the book. A framed Toulouse-Lautrec Moulin Rouge poster graced the wall over the sofa. The walls were freshly painted, the tall windows curtained, the parlor floor warmed with a carpet. The kitchen was bright, stocked with the standard cookware, dishes and a small box of tea. Alan unpacked the tea tin which held their savings and tucked it to the back of the cupboard.

They emptied their duffle bags and put their clothes away. The bathroom had not only a large tub but a shower. It had been stocked with the usual amenities, of a slightly higher quality than they were used to. They found a portal newly installed in the hall closet, set to the London Office and with the ability to accept four additional preset destinations. A booklet of instructions was included.

Eric tested the bed and the sofa. The bed did not sag, the sofa had some bounce left in its cushions. Alan's pot of ivy (friendship, affection, fidelity, married love) welcomed the kitchen window as its new home. The sprig of mistletoe (kiss me, I surmount difficulties) came out of hiding to rest above the bedroom door. Alan shook his blanket out over the new bed, which was large and long. Then they returned to the kitchen. With silent ceremony, Eric placed his teapot on the kitchen table.

Home.

From the cupboard, Alan took out two mugs in the same stoneware which all Housing shared. He took down a plate and a sugar bowl. He turned on the faucet, saw that the water ran clear, and filled the kettle. He checked a drawer and pulled out two unbent spoons.

"I checked our old place and our current bolt-hole. Everything's out. Smitty will install his lock tonight and give us the code tomorrow. This apartment is really very nice, isn't it? I hope we are here long enough to get used to it. Have you ever seen an apartment so handsome?"

"Och, aye, Will's stuck in his job forever, so Grell's done their place up a treat. I got to see it because she needed me to help Will rearrange furniture. Will won't admit it but he's proud of her work, especially the curtains. See, she used to, ah, walk out with angels before she and Will made their vows. The angels usually wound up wandering the streets in their undertunics. Grell made her curtains out of their robes. She also reupholstered Will's easy chair and footrest with the same fabric. Will rests his seat and feet on an angel's robe every evening. Makes his whole day."

The kettle sang. The teapot was scoured with boiling water, tea leaves were added and the teapot filled. Eric had a few packets of sugar in a pocket, saved from dinner in the cafeteria; they went into the sugar bowl. Alan contributed a few biscuits from the same source and laid them on the plate. They sat down, shifted their weight back and forth, and grinned at each other; neither chair was wobbly.

"Admins of middle rank do well for themselves, do they not?"

"They do. Evidently reapers are also entitled but Housing doesn't mention it. Probably because we tend to create a lot of turnover."

"Ach, well now, Admins do spend more time in quarters. They don't do the double shifts, or if they do the shifts are shorter. They don't get reassigned without notice, and they aren't in constant danger."

One could get used to this, Alan thought. It would be unwise. At any time, they might have to leave. But for the moment, the luxury could be enjoyed. Definitely they should have Smitty secure the door. One might argue that a defensible apartment with no neighbors on the floor would not need to be abandoned. The Angels must have access to Housing's records, so constant relocation would not be that much protection. Should the windows likewise be locked? Barred? No, dammit, he would not jail himself. Better to accept, be ready to attack or run, and ask Mari's tutelage on getting the bolt-hole a comfortable bed so Eric would not have backaches when he woke.

"We need to do something nice for Mari. Do you think a bouquet or a fruit basket would be welcome? Or a tin of the finest Indian tea, with a real porcelain cup and saucer in a pretty pattern? Since Admins can keep such things?"

"I will ask Brock and Liz what would be most acceptable to an Admin to whom we owe an enormous debt. Hae ye noted that reading chair?"

"Oh yes, and the well-sprung bed, long enough for you and wide enough for us. Let's make up a shopping list of the basic staples. I'll fill it on the way back from teaching tomorrow. Nothing fancy just yet, we're too busy to cook. Sugar, cream, biscuits, better tea, coffee. Do we have a coffee maker?"

Eric rose. "Let me check yon cabinet—ah, yes, here we are, a simple drip carafe and a box of filters, even a coffee grinder. Put coffee on the list, then. Some ale or beer. Shortbread and biscuits for the table and maybe whatever fruit is in season. Bread and butter. A bit of cheese. Now then, let's have our tea and pretend we're not refugees from the catacombs, squatting in an unattended house while the owners enjoy a seaside vacation."

Alan poured tea and decided that Eric would defend that reading chair with all his might and every possible boobytrap.

"Have ye any word on how Fancher's doing?"

"Still blind. You'd know more about it than I. You went through that once, didn't you?"

"Aye, was blind for nearly a month, drove me boss spare trying to schedule around me. I witnessed a death match between an Angel and a Fallen. They both lost. Scorched the earth for a mile. It's why me glasses are tinted. Most can go back to ordinary spectacles after a while, but Anderson says I'll always be a little light-sensitive."

"Really? The Academy teaches that injured Reapers always heal to their original state. Is that one of their convenient glosses?"

"Maybe. I didn't that time, not quite. Doesn't bother me any. Possibly the severity bent the rules a bit; they pretty well burnt me face off. But Charlie should be fine in a week, not least because he'll be allowed to rest. No paperwork shifts while he's blind."

"May I mention that to Dr. Collins? He's studying Angelic injuries to Reapers, because they take longer to heal."

"Tell him if ye like. Pops Anderson can verify it. Glasgow might still have the medical records. Me boss transferred me to London right after, said it was for the better eye care. Truth was, he considered me unlucky."

"About our bolt-hole. There are a disturbing number of empty rooms on that floor—so empty that people can go in and shop around for furniture. Eric, how many have we lost? Are we having trouble scheduling?"

"We are losing people. We can still cover our shifts because we planned for this. Some have been transferred to Branches whose staffing has fallen too low. Mostly because they didn't recruit heavily enough in the prewar years. Or they slacked off on training. Some have been promoted into management in smaller branches. Some are on loan to branches along the battle lines. Some are known to be Lost. And some are unavailable."

"Unavailable?"

"Unavailable. I cannae say more."

"You needn't. I already know. Werther, and many more across Britain. They've been reaping the souls killed in combat. The souls don't realize they are dead. They attack their Reapers as they attacked their foes. Anger, hatred and battle madness, laying the curse upon us. The missing Reapers have the Thorns."

"Ach, who told you that?"

"A friend, the rooms downstairs, my own experiences. But officially, you told me, just now, when you gave me the authorized official version. The Reapers are unavailable, when every Reaper is needed. Therefore, there is a reason they cannot Reap. They're being isolated from other Reapers who would ask questions. Therefore, there are questions that must not be asked. It all boils down to Reapers who cannot risk having a Thorns attack while working on the front lines. They've been tucked away in the support services. Their glasses have been disconnected from their Branch monitoring systems. It's not going to work, you know."

Eric chuckled grimly. Alan looked up, then continued.

"If I can decode this, so can anyone else. Ten Hagen obviously suspects, and I'm sure his partner Terry knows from working Personnel in Bristol. Medical knows, of course. They are looking for a treatment with their Uppers' approval. They have recently received orders to be silent. The doctors whose patients are affected will not obey. The managers of the support services have to know, so they can deal with an employee having a seizure. When that happens there will be witnesses. Face it, this is already going public. There is no way to keep it quiet even if they scythe all the victims. Which has already been suggested in a roundabout fashion by those utter bastards in Medical Research."

"And bless yer wee heart for saying so. Because now I can go to Will and say, 'The plan's a bust. Me partner knew better days ago and it's becoming common knowledge in the dorms.' Now he can ask awkward questions about what's being done for these poor fellows. We must care for our own, for nobody else is going to, and so I will tell him."

"They abandoned me when I was cursed. Will hired Ronald on the assumption he would be fully trained before I became too ill to work. One of his very few mistakes. But these days, this many cannot be spared or replaced. Remind Will that this war is only the first disaster."

"Indeed. I'll also tell him that the Russian Academies' class sizes are still increasing. That should get somebody's attention. Pour me another?"

Alan poured. "Give Will all your information, everything you have or suspect, and a little time to think about all this. He's beginning to change and grow, Eric; he's planning on a larger scale than just London. I think Madame has been training him, all these years, for a much higher position. She's kept him here to mature his natural skills and to learn to overcome his failings."

"He'll hate being promoted, not that he has any choice in the matter. He and Grell would lose their home."

"Actually, I think he will explode into action like a hellhound unleashed. And do it from his current desk. But that's not our concern. Right now there are a hundred or more Reapers cursed with the Thorns.

"We have some rank and some friends, you and I. I will think about challenging some intelligent people to find a cure; I just need to find out how quiet or noisy I have to be. For instance, if I were to announce this at the Academy— to Academician Provost Pollard particularly— and they threaten to cancel classes until the matter is addressed? They won't just cancel exams because the graduating class would be thrown directly into the field in June. Anyone still alive the next day would be considered to have passed the final. But the Uppers can't field students who haven't had their final year of training without repercussions, and they can't keep Uriel from finding out."

"Blast Sandriel for getting into trouble with Uriel; he'd be our best hope of a quick intervention from Above." Eric offered the last biscuit to Alan.

"I think I should mention to our fiercest Admins that if our numbers fall too low, they may find themselves conscripted. Mind you, I will bet that a number of Thorns sufferers have already been transferred into Admin roles. The word will be spreading already. Dorrie will take it to Goodfellow, who will investigate. Auditing will report to Madame Administrator. And she can apply pressure to those villains in Medical Research—"

"And they will send someone to scythe you. Me Light, I ask one favor. Do not set yerself afire to warm their frozen hearts. I am beside ye. If ye go into the dark we will go together. But I would prefer that we live through this campaign, to love each other and to confound the enemy, and find more wrongs to right."

"Sounds good to me. I'll work quietly for now; I'll start on Thursday at the Scythe and Skull. I'll plot and plan as Will has taught me. You let me know what decisions are handed down. If you don't, I'll assume you've been silenced."

13: The Boon

The Reaping was going quietly. There were very few demons around this week. It seemed that most had been called to the Nivelle offensive, along with the usual drafts of Reapers and angels, and stayed on for the Battle of the Observatories.

Humphries had been called to Folkestone to help with an air raid. England's vile weather had caused the Germans to send aeroplanes rather than the Zeppelins which were so vulnerable to high winds. Alan had promised to report to Engineer Edward 'Smitty' Smithfield on the effectiveness of the 'planes– greater mastery of wind, far more maneuverable, equal problems with fog, smaller payload but larger numbers, equal flammability but harder to target, and immense potential for destruction. Reports over a cup of tea were well enough, but Alan wanted to bring Smitty along to witness the next raid first-hand.

Alan checked his List and drifted towards the group of rescue workers trying desperately to revive another victim.

Sorenson moved behind him. "Angel at your seven," he murmured, "trying very hard to look harmless."

Alan turned. A chick. Nervous and embarrassed. "Keep him off me while I reap?"

"My pleasure," said Sorenson, and moved to face the Junior Pigeon, skewering him with a flat look which suggested ange en brochette et flambé had appeared on the menu.

Alan checked his watch, scythed his Reap, reviewed its brief records. The soul looked into the Light, cried "Oh! Johnny!" and rushed into eternity.

Ticking off the entry on his List, Alan turned back to his reaping partner. Sorenson was standing at relaxed ready, as one considering the merits of various herbs and spices. The angel looked terrified. Alan sighed. Just a hatchling, really. Couldn't draw his flaming sword without setting his wings afire.

He stepped up, bowed slightly, and announced himself. "Senior Collections Agent Humphries, London Operations."

The angel tucked his wings well back, placed his palms together over his breast, and bowed without taking his eyes off the Reapers. Well, good; their training was improving. "Erlon, Flight G-16, honored sir. A message from the Ser- ah, the entity Sandriel, if you are willing to accept it."

An incomplete introduction. It might be ignorance, or it might be several other things. "Which, if any, Garrison do you serve?"

The angel blushed. "Your pardon, honored sir. Erlon, Flight G-16, trainee, in the service of the London Garrison, on temporary messenger duty for the entity Sandriel."

Color-Sergeant Bourne had really wound this kid up tight. His gears were near stripping. "Thank you. I would be pleased to accept a message from the honored Sandriel." Who needed to be honored with a kick up the arse. However, that kick was not Alan's to give, and had apparently been ably administered by a fearsome superior in Sandriel's own hierarchy. It was time to make peace.

The angel, looking greatly relieved, took a deep breath. "Sandriel to the honored Reaper and wise counsellor Alan Humphries; Hail, my companion in battle and in thought."

Oh my, thought Alan. Several kicks.

"I wish to extend my greatest apologies for the clumsiness which has cost you so dearly. Such regrets must be offered in person, as well as reports on efforts made to correct the underlying situation. Pray name the date, hour and place which is most convenient to you."

This, from an angel to a reaper? It was still "Get yer butt over here," but the phrasing indicated that somebody of exalted rank wanted this conflict resolved. "Efforts to correct" sounded promising. Right. Fists crossed over chest, bow in return, never take your eyes off him in case the immaturity was a glamour and an act.

"Humphries of London to the honored Sandriel, comrade in arms, whose hands hold mercy and healing; Hail. If it is convenient for you as well, pray meet me at the Academy, outside Greyhame Hall, this day at 1700 hours, which is the end of my last class. We shall stroll in the leafy avenues or rest in the Cafeteria or find an unused classroom as it pleases you."

Erlon repeated the message faultlessly, bowed again and flashed away. Sorenson gave Humphries his standard don't-try-to-ditch-me glare. "It's okay, Mitch. They want something from me. But yes, I'll try to keep him outside in the open. He'll expect you or Eric to be in the background."

Alan dismissed his students, having given them much to ponder. This was an advanced final-year class. They had been provided with many facts that were not on the syllabus, though Alan was quietly working towards having them all inserted into the curriculum. There would be furious disputation in the staff lounges and meetings. Alan was rather looking forward to it. He gathered his materials, locked them in his office, and left the building. Sorenson trailed him, looking for any trouble.

Across the walkway, a figure sat on a park bench. Sandriel had assumed the form and dress of a student belonging to this year's graduating class. He'd kept enough of his aura to ward other students away from the bench. Alan thought about borrowing Erlon to introduce his students to an actual angel. Currently their knowledge of angels was received from older reapers, most of whose stories were of bad experiences and painful injuries. The students would learn a great deal. So would Erlon. But no; unfair to the students to teach them to expect better treatment from the angels until the angels themselves became accustomed to the notion. Far better for his students to be cautious.

Alan crossed the walkway and stopped a wary three paces from Sandriel's bench. "Hail, angel."

Sandriel winced. "Please, Alan, sit. Tell your escort I intend you no harm."

"Yet harm was done. Even we must be safe in our homes. Was it Elihu who pushed his way over the threshold, or was it you? Never mind, I'll ask Molly. She is not going to forget that. She'll make sure no one else forgets it either. Must have been a surprise to find a room full of belligerents. Eric arriving right behind you must have been unwelcome, too. It could have gone very badly for you. Has gone badly. Our guests have spread this story broadcast. It's put all our people on alert for retaliatory expeditions from your junior Flight. Engineering is working on ways to keep angels out. And all this when relations between London's Branch and Garrison were going so well, too."

"Peccavi, mea maxima culpa. Tell them to add demonic repellants as well, as long as they're at it. I wanted your side of the story. I should have waited, gone through protocol. But I thought I could also expedite your healing, which led me to unwise haste and an inexcusable breach of manners." Sandriel held out his hand, offering a stoneware soup bowl.

Alan accepted the bowl cautiously. "Did you have any trouble with taking this home?" The Divine Realm was forbidden to Reapers. Alan had no idea if that extended to their kitchenware.

"No, except that it looked at me accusingly until I hid it under the bed. The transfer did not harm or change it. Stoneware is of the earth, the essence of the human realm, and it aspires to no other place or form. Tell me, O best, bravest, and snarkiest among Reapers, can we again be friends?"

"Knock off the sarcasm. Of course we are friends. I suppose you've already received a copy of my report to Will. I imagine you know more about the attack than I do by now. Any more problems with that Flight?"

"None. Color-Sergeant Bourne's opinion is virtually tattooed on the inside of their eyelids. Captain Elihu made them recite that passage from the Law every hour on the hour for three days. General Artois expressed a level of displeasure that sent most of the Training Officers into a catastrophic moult. Changes have been made. Other flights with training deficiencies have been traced and recalled."

Alan smothered a chuckle. "Good, then. What do you need from me? A signed notification that all is forgiven and forgotten? Well, forgiven, anyway?"

Sandriel sobered and glanced away. "No. I have been instructed to make amends. More than just an apology with appropriate groveling, though you may have all of that you wish, not that you'd like it. You may ask me a boon. If it is something that I cannot give, you may ask another until we find one mutually acceptable."

"So I can't just buy you a drink and send you home?"

"No. I must render you a service of note, to the best of my ability and in the sight of your people."

"Okay. Peacemaking, I see. It has to be done. It has to be seen to be done, and it has to please Azrael. And it must please your superior. And it must please my Realm as well. Um. Nothing forbidden. You're the expert on that."

They sat in silence while Alan thought. Sorenson leaned against a tree, watching the passersby, smiling to himself and projecting an aura of incipient mayhem.

"Sandriel, will you walk with me?"

"Of course. Would you like to be reborn to human life?"

"No. I will not leave Eric. You should know that. Do you not serve a God of Love? Twit. You angels do tend to be a little inexperienced on the subject. How's Matthias, do you know?"

"Matthias?"

"An angel sentenced to the human realm for starting an unauthorized family. Father to three Nephilim. Recently recalled to heaven from the battlefields of Flanders. I check up on his wife and daughter every so often, just to see that nobody's taking advantage of their men being gone. He once served me the finest tea I've ever tasted. Nice fellow."

"Don't know him, but I'll check. What is this?"

They had entered an area of rapid, purposeful activity. There were several portals though which ambulances came, were emptied, and departed. Other portals were dedicated to foot traffic. Angels and Reapers moved between the tents carrying trays of equipment, medicines, bandages and food.

"This tent city, as you know perfectly well already, is the Angel/Reaper Hospital. Please tell this nice ferocious guard that we mean no harm. Humphries, London, instructor. My identification. My escort, Senior Sorenson. His identification. This? It's a soup bowl, for Pete's sake. Thanks. Come along. We want Tent Twelve."

The tent was quiet. Nurses moved silently among the beds. Alan led Sandriel to the back and stopped by a patient who had no visible injuries. He was pale and appeared to have lost weight recently. His face was drawn with pain; his breathing had an odd whistling note. Sorenson brought a chair. Alan gestured Sandriel to sit down.

"Werther. Sorry to bother you. Someone's here to look at your condition."

"Urf…Alan? 'M okay really, just tired…"

Sandriel laid a hand on Werther's chest. There was a horrible twisting of malice and anger within. Werther moaned. This was…a parasite. A parasitic…not an illness, not an injury…a curse. Sandriel looked up.

"Alan, this is awful. What does this to a Reaper?"

"This is the Thorns of Death. It's a curse laid on a Reaper by a vengeful soul. Used to be fairly uncommon. Now on the battlefields we are suddenly seeing a lot of it, especially when the Reapers are tired or have injuries that haven't quite healed. There is no cure. It is progressive and fatal."

Sandriel slipped his other hand under Werther's back. There was a scent of spring rain. Werther sighed and relaxed as the pain faded. Not a remedy, but a temporary relief. Alan spoke softly.

"This is my request, Sandriel. Find a cure for this. Our numbers are falling lower and lower. We cannot spare the hundreds worldwide who are cursed. They die faster than we can train replacements. We are becoming too few to accomplish the duties assigned to us. Soon another disaster will begin. When our noncombatants have all been activated and lost, the system will collapse."

Alan sank to one knee, held the stoneware bowl before him, bowed low. "Merciful Seraph, I beg this boon of you."

"Oh, get up. Drop the drama. You look ridiculous. This sort of thing is beyond my experience. Curses are the property of the Demonic realm."

Alan straightened up and rested his arms on his knee. "Drama indeed, but it's the proper form; I checked it in the Book of Law today when Will was off-duty. You're stuck with it."

He handed Sandriel the bowl. "I've chosen my boon and you're obligated to do your best. Under the circumstances it's perfectly reasonable. We are going to run out of Reapers. It's not just this war, but disasters yet to come. The induction rates in the Academies keep increasing. Many branches in many countries are reduced to fielding Juniors too young to serve. This is the result for most of the ones not lost to demons."

Alan rose to his feet and brushed his trousers. "If curses belong to the Demonic, then curse-breaking is the rightful duty of the Celestial. Finding a fix will make Azrael happy, it'll make us happy, and that should please your boss Raphael, the Angel of Healing. Oops, not supposed to know that. Sorry. Well. All good. Want some tea? The cafeteria here is not as bad as it used to be."

Sandriel snorted. Werther snickered and said, "Do hurry, please, the Branch is about to inherit my debt at the candy shop."

"We are keeping your candy jar filled. I'll tell everyone to start charging it to your account. See, Sandriel, another reason to make haste. Pity the poor confectioner."

Sandriel stood and huffed. "I'd better get started then. For the confectioner's sake." He placed the bowl, now filled with individually wrapped candies, on Werther's bed. Silently he flashed away home.

Mitch unwrapped a golden sweet to offer to Werther, who accepted it happily. "Butterscotch. Mm. A little blessing's been added to these, I think. I'll share them around the hospice when I'm discharged. I won't say anything about this, Alan. It would be unkind to get their hopes up. Some of them are so young…"

When Alan returned to the office the next morning, a tin of tea was on his desk. It was the same blend that Matthias had once served him, in the house in London.

14: Werther

Werther died quietly a week later, at the hospice. The man in the next bed reaped his soul, as the orderly on duty had never taken the Final Exam. He would only say that he had presented Werther for judgement. Werther's name was entered in the lists of the Lost, where Alan found it the next day. He visited the hospice as soon as he could slip away unnoticed.

"Humphries? Werther left an envelope to be sent to you. Apologies, I should have done it yesterday, but we're very busy. There's a long waiting list for any empty bed. We've been moving in three new patients."

Alan ascertained that no debts were owed, and was given Werther's only personal possession. "Maintenance removed the body. Supplies collected his duffel. Not sure where this bowl came from; not one of ours, and Supplies seems to have missed it."

Alan took the bowl to his office and set it on his windowsill. He wondered if it would become a symbol of empty promises. He opened the envelope. It held Werther's pay packet, a bill from a confectioner, and a note: "Senior Humphries, would you please send someone to pay this man? Give the rest of the money to the hospice. I've tucked your bowl under my bed, hoping Supplies won't take it. If they do, this note should make them replace it. My thanks to you and your angel. His candies were much appreciated by everyone here."

The sweetshop that Werther had patronized was a small establishment in the Human Realm. Alan carefully assumed a minimal glamour to hide the Reaper eyes. He kept the chill aura of death. Humans would accept it as evidence of illness severe enough to excuse a young man from military service.

The walls behind the counter held several shelves of large glass jars full of colorful boiled sweets. The room was gloriously redolent of fruit and sugar. Alan had a flash of some long gone experience, the taste of a lost memory. Or not lost, but taken away.

The proprietor accepted the detailed list of small purchases, with regrets; Werther had been a steady customer for quite a few years. "A good fellow, always pleasant, paid up every quarter on the dot. Said his heart kept him out of the army. I suppose that did for him in the end?"

"Yes," said Alan sadly. "His heart."

"People would scold him for not enlisting. Poor gentleman, always polite. I didn't allow them to badger him in my shop. Told them his health wasn't his fault or their business. The last time he visited, he did seem unwell. Please extend my condolences to his friends and family."

"Thank you, I shall. He is missed. Please make up a small assortment of the sweets he liked best? He kept a candy bowl for his co-workers. I will maintain it in his name."

"An honorable intent. Yorkshire Mixture, Rosie Apples, Butterscotch, Dandelion and Burdock, Blackcurrant and Liquorice, Clove Rock…increasingly difficult to get the sugar these days, people are hoarding, but this week I was fortunate…and a few extra of these Pear Drops in his memory...in cold weather he always liked the Winter Mixture, but that has to be kept in a separate lidded jar, because the mint and menthol will permeate any exposed foodstuffs nearby. Would you like to keep this bill? It's a handy list of all the sorts he preferred. Half price today, for you only. Thank you, sir, and," a quick compassionate glance at Alan, "enjoy them in good health."

Alan filled the candy bowl in the common room, leaving a note that the confectioner had been paid and leaving the address of the shop for any who wished to visit for personal favorites. Quite a few candies were left over in the bag. Someone else had recently stocked the bowl. It emptied more gradually these days, residents being fewer than before.

Alan returned to his office, poured out the remaining candies into the soup bowl, and left it on a corner of Bradshaw's desk for general consumption. Brock came by and asked if he might take one. Knox arrived almost immediately, always alert to any hint of sweets. Alan told them the candies were free to all, and why. They listened to the whole story, as did several passersby. Many listeners had known Werther when he was the cheerful, congenial First Resident of Junior Housing. Werther's fate would be common knowledge throughout Operations and Admin by dinnertime and would spread through Collections by lunch tomorrow.

Will would call Alan in for the standard scolding (No food outside the break rooms, most unprofessional, pampering the employees, a distraction from their work, encouraging socializing on company time, a slackening of standards, Humphries! Who knows what presumption might follow!) at 15:30 and would eject him in frustration at 15:45. The bowl would stay, if not on Bradshaw's desk, then on someone else's. It might have to travel around for a bit until Will got over his indignation. Soon enough he would transfer his anger to the treatment of his reapers who were cursed in the performance of their duty.

An angry William T. Spears was a powerful force of nature and a leader of opinion among the Branch Directors. As a group they might provide additional pressure for better treatment and research. Will would likely want the first complaints to Madame Administrator to come from one of his colleagues. Alan bet himself a cup of tea and a cream bun that it would be Director D'Acres of Bristol, whose employees had suffered years of poor training and were vulnerable.

At the beginning of his rest shift, Alan visited the cemetery. It had expanded farther into the horizon. Among the newest graves – so many new graves; so many familiar names – he found Werther's headstone, marked only with his number. He looked around; most markers had names, but a few were serial numbers only.

None knew better than Reapers that the body was not the person; yet it had served its owner to the best of its ability and deserved to be treated with respect.

Alan ruined a utility knife scratching Werther's name above the number. He rested his forehead on the gravestone and offered an incoherent prayer for an unforgiven reaper and a truly gentle man.

Eric met him at the gate to offer a handkerchief and take him home.

That evening, Smitty installed a slightly larger keypad on the doorframe. "New model. Special destination on this one. Suggested by a North American reaper. He calls it the Flowering Bushwhack. It's a Sonora Desert location, a patch of cholla jumping cactus and ocatilla, which is long sticks with thorns all over. Kincade said it's inhabited by Gila monsters, skunks, huge spiders, and a sidewinder. Which is not a pocket watch, by the way. It's a highly specialized viper with a filthy temper. Security will get an alarm if somebody triggers the mechanism."

"I am properly impressed," marvelled Alan. "I hope they get to point and laugh."

"If the intruder is not an angel or a demon, it will take three ports minimum to get him back. Several people will get to point and laugh. You can set your code now. How do you like this new place?"

"It is very comfortable. At first we felt like trespassers. We're starting to grow into it. Would you like tea? I have a seed cake."

"Yes, if you don't mind, that would be very welcome."

"We'll need to be quiet, Eric's asleep."

"Oh, this is a great apartment! Perhaps Dutch and I should upgrade. I keep forgetting that I'm entitled. But we need a highly customized arrangement if he's to stay on as my roommate. Probably best just to ask for newer furniture in our double."

"You are a full Engineer now, are you not? Belated congratulations."

"Thanks. I barely noticed the promotion, we were so busy with the new scythe demands. Milk, please—oh, this is good. Where did you get this tea, if I may ask?"

"It was a gift. Probably can't get more, so we should enjoy it while it lasts."

"What happened to this utility knife?"

"War. I hoped that it could be re-honed."

"You need to turn it in. Otherwise it could end up in the hands of someone who won't know it's broken until it's too late. See here where it's cracked? It's just waiting to fly apart. If you let me take it, I'll find you a new one of the same size but a better alloy. Dutch can hand them over to Bradshaw tomorrow. It'll give Sam something else to think about. They had an interesting experience today, and Sam's still a little hissy about it. Would you like to hear the story? It seems that..."

« First « Prev Ch 14 of 52 Next »

15: Field Hospital

Some of the souls fought viciously, thinking male Reapers were enemy soldiers. Female Reapers became invaluable in the midst of battles, as the dead believed them to be angels of mercy or Valkyries. Perhaps they were. Many all-male branches began to rethink their staffing practices.

Angels and demons alike were appalled by the carnage.

"And the Highest loves these monsters! Why?"

"Thought we were supposed to be the bad ones. By comparison, we're pikers. Inventive, aren't they?"

A few Angels fell. A few demons rose. The Reapers worked double shifts while the humans warred around them and the demons and angels warred above them.

Injuries were common. It took some practice never to manifest into the Human realm enough to be affected by the battles around them. A bullet or two could go through with no particular damage. A mortar shell could require an unpleasant two or three days of regeneration.

Senior Collections Agent Ten Hagen (London) was one of a team assigned a defense shift, its purpose to protect a group of Belgian Reapers. They were working among humans along the edge of an artillery barrage. The Reapers were keeping up with the deaths fairly well. Dutch was moving alongside them to help with souls and records out of control. His demon detector kept up a constant low buzz, as there were always predators on the battlefield. He had it turned down to its lowest setting. The detector could run out of power over a double shift of constant alerts. Something to complain to Smitty about, maybe, or more likely Franklin, as the detectors were a product of the London Labs.

He was reeling in a detached string of life records when the detector yelped and spat. He ducked quickly. A demon grabbed his shoulder as it flew over. It had missed his scythe, but caught his arm. They went down together in a heap, struggling for control. It grabbed again for his scythe, which he banished to safety; the demon wound itself around his chest. Dutch manifested into the human realm with enough physical presence to grab a fallen rifle. As he rammed the butt into the demon's face, everything blew upwards with a crushing force and came down hard in a torrent of mud, blood and body parts.

Senior Collections Agent Terry (London) followed his partner down into the ground, caught his collar and ported him back to the surface and the supernatural plane. Ooof. Heavy.

Oh. Dutch was entangled with someone else. Not a human. Both injured. He didn't recognize the other fellow, whose face was going to need some healing. He waved for the nearest stretcher crew, a group of entry-level Angels. All the Reaper medics had been pressed into Collection teams for this battle. Dutch looked like a shift or two in bed would fix him up fine - he was covered in mud and blood, but all appendages appeared present. Terry, summoned by shouts on his right, left the Angels to it and got back to work.

–End of shift: Field hospital behind the lines–

The doctor watched as two partners held an entire conversation in a wordless series of glances.

I'm fine.

Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fine. And I'm the Queen of Romania.

Help me up?

No. Not until they say so. Stay down or I'll sit on you.

This exchange was a daily occurrence, the only difference being in who was on the cot and who was standing next to it. It was standard between partners regardless of Branch. Patients shared an earnest desire to return home and complete their healing in their own beds. It had led to an order that the patients' clothes were locked up and only reissued at discharge. It did cut down on the number of escapees. Somewhat. Victorian propriety was not yet entirely out of fashion. It had its uses, and its limits.

Examined, treated, and warned against manifesting into artillery barrages, Reaper Ten Hagen was given his muddy suit. The doctor hurried off to see to another admission. Reaper Terry steadied his partner as he dressed. "Ready to go home?"

Ten Hagen shook his head slightly, touched his finger to his lips, and knelt by the next cot. He whispered to a patient whose head and torso were swathed in bandages. There was a pained response. Ten Hagen waved his partner over to kneel on the other side of the bed. To the patient, he murmured, "My partner. Senior Collections Agent Samuel Terry. Reaper Realm, London Branch, Collections Division, Operations Department, Personnel, on temporary assignment to Bristol." The patient groped, caught Terry's shoulder, peered through a gap in the wrappings, gasped "Fergilept. Fifth Circle. First Army. Sixth Company, Third Battalion, Second Regiment, First Brigade. I owe you one. Remember."

Ten Hagen stood with some difficulty. In a normal if offensively cheerful tone, he said, "See you later, Fergie! Get some rest while you can." There was an irritable growl from amidst the bandages. Terry and Ten Hagen left the tent in silence, and in silence ported back to their headquarters. They checked their schedules, updated their status, offloaded their Reaps and were dismissed to take a portal back to London. Once in the home office, Terry demanded, "Explain!"

"Let's get back to the dorms. My room." Once they had checked in with Scheduling and were dismissed to their rest shift, they went over to Senior Housing. In his room, Ten Hagen checked his watch against a schedule pinned to the curtains.

"Smitty's still at work. Now we can talk as long as nobody shouts, okay? Everything hurts. I need to lie down."

"Do that." Terry, that prince among partners, hastened to make Dutch as comfortable as possible.

"Give me your jacket. Now your knives. Strip. Get in the shower. Go back, you've still got mud in your hair. Here's your pajamas. Steady, now. Sit down. Another blanket?" Clothing was bagged for cleaning, shoes were put away, a glass of water set upon the bed table, and a meal ordered for delivery. Dutch raised the water glass and tossed back a white pill.

Only then did Terry take a deep breath and hiss, "What the pluperfect hell was a demon doing in a Reaper-Angel field hospital?"

"Ahhh, well. You rescued him–"

"I what!"

"–and I didn't stop you. We were bashing each other hand-to-hand, you see. He was all wrapped around me so I couldn't reach my knives. I yanked him into the human realm, manifesting enough to pick up a gunstock to whack him with. While I was flattening his face and he was clawing at me, a shell exploded. We had enough mass to be blown sky-high. He took the worst of the blast, though. When you pulled me out of the crater, he was still hanging onto me…."

"The Reaper? Was actually a demon?"

"The stretcher bearers picked us both up, all covered in mud, and tossed us into an ambulance. I told him to hold his human form, which he did because the Angels were everywhere. The orderlies who washed us off are rookies who have never seen demons. His face was swollen beyond recognition anyway. Sometime tonight, after his ribs heal, he'll sneak off home."

Terry groaned. "The smell of disinfectants covered the smell of demon. You'd smashed up his inhuman beauty. His clothes looked like an Algerian uniform. Even the Angels standing guard missed him. And he's one of the mammalian types with blood rather than ichor, so the overworked nurses just wrapped him up and moved on."

"Yup. Wolf or dog demon, maybe. After a long shift of killing, I didn't feel like watching the Angels give him the chop. I'd be surprised if this hasn't happened before. Anyway, he owes us both. The canid types have a certain sense of honor, as long as they aren't ninth circle. That's why I introduced you. He's acknowledged the debt. Might come in handy someday."

There came a light rap on the door between Dutch's room and Smitty's. Sam called, "Come on in! your roomie is an idiot. I am now going to bop him one. Want to watch?"

Smitty peeked through the doorway. The sound of his brain moving into second gear was almost audible. "Isn't whacking your partner when he's down against the Pure and Noble Reapers' Code? You okay, Dutch?"

Dutch, giggling hysterically, flipped a pillow over his head. Sam slapped the pillow.

"Dutch will be fully healed from his concussion injuries by next shift. Getting over what I'm going to do him may take longer."

"Ah, Dutch, should I defend you against this vengeful maniac, or should I just step outside for a bit? Sam, whatever did he do to you? After all, he's the one who's just taken a pain pill and gone all silly."

"Yup," said Dutch happily. "Doctors' favorite. Doesn't do a thing for the pain but leaves you too stupid to complain about it. Sam just needs to snit."

"Is snit a verb?"

"Today it is. I snit, you snit, we snit. Conjugation; Snit snat snut. Sam did a Pure and Noble" — chortle— "Reaper Thing today. I just went along with it. Not the angels' business to interfere in our fights anyway. Snooty angels. Wake me up when the food gets here."

Smitty chuckled. "Thanks, Sam, for bringing him home and getting him cleaned up. Now tell all, both of you, or I swear I'll change the locks. I've an installation to do this evening. For your bosses. You've got ninety minutes before I have to go."

"That the Blooming Ambush? All poison ivy and blackberry canes with mountain lions and bears?"

"No. Worse. Stop trying to distract me from what promises to be a really good story."

"Oh, all right, if you insist." Dutch moved the pillow under his head. "I did a moderately unwise thing today, just the sort of stunt we advise the Juniors against. Sam will never let me forget it. We were working an artillery barrage alongside a troop of Belgian and German reapers. I was attacked by a demon. That's not so common as it used to be. And he was acting alone, that's odd—ouch. Stop poking. It's part of the story. This couldn't have happened if he was part of a group. Anyway, he missed his strike. He was trying to get my scythe, to use it on all the reapers I was protecting. I banished it and took him into the Human realm to pick up a gunstock. Whacked him several good ones on the nose. But I lingered too long on that plane. Blam. A whizzbang buried both of us deep in mud."

"So," Sam took up the tale, "I went down and hooked him out. He came up tangled with someone else whose face was all mashed. Looked like one of our allies, beneath all the mud. I waved for the stretcher carriers. Dutch wasn't missing any limbs so I figured he'd be okay. That same artillery strike gave us a lot of work to do, and I had to move on right away."

Smitty listened with appreciation as the two Reapers told their tale. He answered the outside door and brought in the food delivery. He and Sam eased Dutch upright so he could eat. Sam continued the story with some bitterness.

"At the end of the shift I went to retrieve Dutch from Medical's clutches. The next thing I know, I'm being formally introduced to a Fifth Circle demon, probably a brigade-major or staff officer because he carefully did not give his rank. And I cannot say a word because the angels would overreact and kill us all, and then Dutch would kill me all over again, to say nothing of the doctors and nurses whose ward was disrupted. They would kill everybody and then schedule them for punitive proctology and a thorough delousing involving carbolic and a fire hose."

"Fergilept. Fergie." Dutch snickered. "My friend. You be nice to him."

Sam moaned. "Go to sleep, you idiot."

Another knock. Sam went to the door. There was a brief exchange. Sam closed the door and returned, his anger forgotten. "Werther died. Humphries paid his confectioner's bill. That means he knows."

Smitty nodded. "He'll work on it. All we can do is wait."

16: All on a Beautiful Morning

Demons on the left! Defenders attack! Push them back! Collectors, to the rear! Where are our angels?

London Dispatch

Grell, newly off the graveyard shift, swept into the office she shared with Knox and their Junior. She tossed her coat at the peg on the wall. "I need a drink. Several drinks. Anybody want to come along?"

Amalia Reyes, putting on her jacket, said, "It's breakfast time for me. I'm starting a split shift with Mitch. Sorry."

Ronald Knox looked up from his books and essays. "Homework. I hate it. I barely have time to sleep."

Grell snorted. "Your own fault for being competent in public. Slingby avoided promotion for decades by presenting himself as an insubordinate drunkard with an impenetrable accent. That started to slip when he met Alan. Now look at the poor sod. That's you in five years."

"Ah, no! Kill me now. Wait. Isn't there a rule? What about Hesseltine? Isn't he doing a five-year transfer here to qualify for a management promotion in his home branch? Can't I just refuse to leave?"

Grell sighed and shucked her jacket. She sat and rummaged in her desk for a bottle of nail lacquer. "Hesseltine's director is a traditionalist, from a Branch where traditions are observed. Will spent fifty years running a hellhole under an administrator who withheld all funding and discarded tradition as expensive nonsense. Remember? You were here. You were very new, but you were here for the end of it. Reapers died because of it. Will still pinches every penny till it screams and bites him. He always will."

Ronnie picked up a book. "It says right here that applicants for Assistant Director have to have served five years in another Branch. But Alan's been here since graduation."

"That's right, Ronnie. Which demonstrates that you're not going to be given that option, either. With the war, you'll only have to finish all your classes."

"Awww, man..."

Junior Reyes sat down and became very busy with the sheath holding her ankle knife. This sounded like an instructional discourse, not to be missed. She still had five minutes. Mitch could wait.

Grell continued, "Will did negotiate to send Alan to Carlisle. But they weren't willing to take the pair. Alan, yes, but not Eric. Eric's carefully constructed reputation bit him in the butt. That was before portals. Think about how a five-year separation would have ended for them."

Ronnie winced. "Secession. Six months tops."

"Two months, and that's the best possible scenario. But see? You understand that. Will doesn't. That's why he needs you to train for management. Will is a company man, blood, bone and breath. Without someone to counter him, he becomes a petty martinet."

Grell spread a bit of lacquer onto a spot on a nail where the previous coat was chipped. "Officially, Alan served his time at the Academy while already doing the job here. For four years Will gave him all the work without the title. He dumped the Budget on him, but 'forgot' to increase his pay until someone else shamed him into it. Madame promoted him a year early. And Alan didn't get the classes, either. Offer to lend him your books when you're done with them. I will bet you anything that he read them all years ago."

Grell waved her hand in the air to dry the new polish.

"Count your blessings, Mustard-seed. If Will did that to you, Alan would defend you. But if Alan is not here, you're on your own. Study the rules. Someday you'll have to pull Will up short. Watch how Alan does it. Dear Will always ends those sessions convinced that Alan's suggestions are his own ideas, and that their greatest benefit is to the Branch rather than its employees. He takes those ideas and builds upon them as only he can. He's not above renting Alan out to a minor Branch for a week or two if he wants to do something that he knows Alan would oppose. Watch for it. Don't let him shout you down when you know you're right."

"You'd be as good at this as I am. Why me?"

"Ronnie, I am completely unsuitable for this job. Not because I am scandalous, mad, defiant of the rules, or partnered with the boss; many Assistant Directors are all of that and more. I will not do it because I will not risk losing Will. I 've done it twice. Never again. Will needs people who will oppose him daily and don't care if they're fired or transferred to Patagonia."

"Has London ever had much turnover?" Reyes was taking notes. She only knew London as the most desirable posting in the country.

"Before Madame Administrator took over, oh yes. We had a terrible casualty rate. Seniors taught their trainees to leave as soon as they could. After she arrived, not as much, because conditions were rapidly improving. Since Alan was promoted, almost none. Since Eric moved into recruitment, we have a waiting list. Ask anyone who was here before Will and has watched the whole progression."

There was a rap on the doorframe. "Molly? You ready?"

"Yes, Mitch, I'm coming." She picked up her Death Book, still used by Reapers for civilian collections, and left the office.

"Molly's doing well, isn't she, now that she's free of Will's orders to guard Alan?"

"Yep. Catching up nicely. She'll be promoted on schedule."

"I will take her to buy her white uniform. We'll have Scheduling arrange her to be partnered with the strongest defenders. You see, Ronnie? Will is brilliant at business planning. But people? No. They are game pieces to be placed and sacrificed. He is going to rise high someday; but only if trusted aides rise with him, managing his treatment of people he does not understand."

"He has Alan."

"Sulking's not a good look for you, sweetie. Think, Ronnie. Alan might be transferred, if a smaller branch loses all its Seniors. If not, well, he has attracted the notice of angels. That's never good. Demons have orders to kill him on sight. His successes have caused some jealousy in other Branches. He's been assassinated once already, by a Reaper he tried to help. In short, he's just the sort of person who should have a string of backups ready to take over at any time. He's tried several Reapers as aides, all of whom have left for easier jobs. Start looking for another Reaper to join you, because it may become too big a job for one person. Eric's scheduling Ten Hagen as a part-time aide for Alan. He has exactly zero experience with Alan's office, which may be an advantage. Marisa Solway is learning; talk to her. She has the advantage of being a noncombatant and an Administrator, which has its own protections. She can teach you both if you let her, and explain why your positions cannot be held by Administrative personnel."

…Where's Burns? Fancher is off to hospital, but where's Burns? Is he taken? Has anyone seen…? Everyone! We're missing a man. Check back over the ground we've covered…Is that.. No, that was a demon. It's dead. I saw Burns over there earlier…There's someone over there. Hurry! Burns? Burns! Are you okay?...Stretcher! Stretcher!...Burns, did you finish your List? I've got it, pass your Collection to me. Stretcher bearers, over here now! Jonas, hold on…

Breakfast in the New Apartment

"I wish ye had called me to go with you. I've had long experience with angels, and they cannot be trusted. While they may not interfere with our work, there are no rules at all that protect us off-duty. Don't scare me like that, me Light."

"You were on the battlefield. Sorenson is, after all, a guard of your own choosing. If Sandriel had lost his temper at any point, we would have escaped. Not that he would make a scene on Academy grounds—"

"Too many witnesses, true."

"Or in the hospital—"

"Where Uriel's crew guards every corner and would tolerate no foolishness around their injured—"

"Also, he is not a member of the Forces Militant. He's not as haughty or warlike as Azrael's troops. Even when I asked my boon, he was not threatening. And this is important, love. He eased Werther's pain, even though it took both hands to do it. Could he be a different species?"

"When he helped you, 'twas but a fingertip's touch. But I didn't get the feeling he wanted to wash his hands afterwards. Injuries, though, are not the same as a curse. As for species, well, maybe there is something to the legends of loving, helpful guardian angels that the humans like to twitter about, but I certainly haven't seen any."

"Come, now, what about Frank Bourne?"

"One out of all the Heavenly Host? One? And if a superior demanded that the friendship end, would he find a more acceptable chum?"

"No, he wouldn't, and you know that."

"Mmph. I agree Sandriel has done you a favor or two when it furthered his own plans. Well, all right, me love, you were safe enough. But I will fret anyway. It's me duty as a partner. How did you track down poor Werther? Did Collins tell you where he was?"

"I didn't ask," said Alan. "I didn't want to get him in trouble. He'd been told to be silent. I have other ways. Thorns is a shameful condition in most countries. The cursed are kicked out when they can't hide it any more. Some starve. Some find work in support-sector jobs until they are too sick. Medical won't keep them for more than a day or two. The hospice takes in the abandoned ill of all branches, without the support of any branch. It's staffed by people who fled the Academy before taking their exams. They're an unfunded charity.

"I promised to try to get the place recognized as a Division responsibility, and at least apply for a grant for better food and nursing. Those suffering severe attacks are sent to Doctor Stafford, Tent Twelve at the Academy hospital. There are always one or two there. It's heartbreaking, Eric. But at least they do have a place to live. And to die; they would rather die at the hospice among their fellows, than at a medical facility which obviously resents their use of the bed."

"I can spare a quid or two."

"They can use it. But Eric – you're Personnel. How did you not know that one of ours was cursed?"

"What I am is Recruitment, Hiring and Firing. And that's only when I'm not Reaping or teaching. Only Avram is full-time. Admin counts the dead, and they missed this entirely. Might be a hole in the rules; Reaper missing, not our responsibility, we don't track secessions or desertions, sort of thing. I think I need to start a new desk for those missing and unaccounted for. As far as I know, that's never been done, and with our losses it will be hard to spare another person to a desk job. I'll speak with LIz Brodie. If she asks around and is brushed off, then we have one problem pinpointed. The other folks who should have noticed is Scheduling. If Admin reported Werther as lost instead of injured or missing, then that explains why Scheduling hasn't followed up on him, and we have another problem to investigate."

Alan waved a fork. "Admin is writing off and lying about Reapers who have the Thorns. I'm going to Will with what I've found. He may want to pursue this without too much fanfare. We're accusing another Division of screwing up, and possibly of screwing up intentionally, or even of screwing up because they have orders to screw up. This is going to go to Madame eventually. In the meantime, you can set Avram to look for other instances of Reapers declared missing and falling through the cracks. He only needs to find one. He'll then ask Will for a convalescent or two to help him, since Terry's Personnel hours are tied up with Bristol. I'll make sure the next year's budget will give us an increased head count and it'll be an official expansion of Personnel's duties."

"Aye. If Admin decries it as redundant, we can point out that it's a job they botched. They'll huff and screech. I'll offer to appeal to Auditing for arbitration. They will suddenly become very helpful if they know they'll lose. If they want arbitration, then that means the scunners think they are in the right. That means somebody Higher Up has issued a written order. That war will have to be fought at his level."

"But we can start it right here. I've got the lists from the hospice - those in residence, those waiting for openings. I'll give copies to Avram. As for me, today I am going to persuade Will to make a very public donation of some of the money which we won't use for the Gather. As long as Will sees it as a one-off which won't affect his future spending, he'll cooperate. He'll see this as a potential hiring opportunity if we can find a cure. I've started Sandriel thinking. If he doesn't get conflicting orders from a superior, I think he'll dedicate himself to the problem. But he did say that curses were more a Demonic specialty."

"Aye, they would be. But healing is his bailiwick."

"So it is, and I wish him joy of it. How are things going in Bristol?"

"Interesting times, me love. Interesting times. The death and resurrection of a branch. The original staff will slowly age off. They're being isolated by their own reputations and their inability to teach. Terry bribed a few notable fighters to provide training sessions – that's how I know what's going on over there; I've taken some of Bristol's folks into me Academy classes.

"The shirkers who've been forced out of deskwork onto battlefields are mostly useless at first. It takes them a few days to learn that they can't get reassigned to cushy jobs by sucking up or fucking up. There's been quite a few late bloomers among their oppressed, though. They'll do well enough.

"D'Acres is determined to create a model Branch over there. He has Madame's full support. She got rid of the three bullies who ruled the Branch. Their former victims worship the rug D'Acres walks on. He's deeply involved in reforming the Admin side, with Auditing running a torches-and-pitchforks campaign beside him. Director Ambrose could not have done his payroll fiddles without Administrative connivance. Housing and Supplies had to know too. Auditing wants to know who profited, and if anyone protested. If so, Auditing wants to know who hid those complaints. Sarah Goodfellow is having the time of her afterlife. Her team are all going to get promotions out of this.

"The office culture is changing. Some of 'em tried to treat the new transfers the way they had been treated. Some didn't know any better; some were just vicious by nature. Garraway stepped in at once, gave the aggressors the choice of learning new habits or leaving, sacked a couple of 'em outright. Now that the downtrodden are allowed to defend themselves, a certain amount of social balancing has begun. Garraway asks only that they sweep up afterwards and don't leave groaning bodies in the hallways where D'Acres can trip over them and complain about the cleaners getting slack.

"Quite a number are desperate to transfer out. The Branches, be they ever so short-handed, don't want 'em. Anybody attempting to flee after reform has begun is sure to be a sneaking snitch or a scheming bully. And, of course, they're forbidden to teach, or even to partner with a teaching Reaper. Maintenance has taken some for duty in remote locations. Supplies is trying a few on their assembly lines, very closely watched.

"Those forcibly transferred from other branches are determined that Bristol shall not become a stain on their records. They are overwriting Bristol's culture with their own. In a year or two the Academy will allow them a few interns. They will report on how they are treated. Soon afterwards the transfers will be allowed trainees. I'm quite proud of Garraway; he's doing good work. He'll build a fine Branch from his new people."

…We sent him here. His partner came here earlier, a shoulder injury. What do you mean, you can't find him? The tent isn't so big you can lose someone in it! No, not sure how badly he was hurt; I'm not qualified to examine a casualty. Let me ask Fancher if he knows what happened…already moved on to the triage site? Both of them? You're sure? We'll check there….

09:00, Director's Office

Alan gathered papers and a box of aspirin tablets. At the appointed time he presented himself to Mister Wójcik, Will's Administrative Assistant. Wójcik nodded, knocked on Will's door and announced, "Mr. Humphries, for your weekly meeting, sir."

Alan walked in. He laid his materials on the table, moved away the uncomfortable-chair-for-keeping-meetings-short and substituted the comfortable-chair-for-extended-planning-sessions. He moved the aspirin within Will's reach. He poured two cups of tea from Wójcik's tea set, gave the first cup to Will, and sat down.

Will looked at the aspirin, looked at the tea, and simply said, "How much?"

"Quite a bit, which we will recoup in the next Budget, for reasons both strategic and humanitarian."

Will glared perfunctorily. He drew the aspirin box nearer but did not open it. "Explain."

"Do you remember Werther? Very good Reaper, quiet, never any complaints, paperwork finished promptly, always willing to help the Juniors?"

"Reported missing but not lost. Last year. Would have been eligible to train this year. Glasses no longer tracked. Skullduggery?"

"Yes. He died two days ago, here in London, in a bare and unheated building which houses Reapers dying of Thorns. These Reapers have been declared dead or missing and their pay has been stopped."

Will went straight to the essentials. "How many?"

"Sixty-two at last count. Only half are British. The others have been expelled or declared lost by foreign branches and made their way here to the only place available to them. They are fed leftovers smuggled in by Cafeteria interns. They are attended by Academy undergraduates who have dropped out because they fear failing their exams. There is a long waiting list of invalids who are destitute and on the street. There is a longer list of Reapers who can still work and hide their conditions. Infirmaries will not keep them for more than two days because the beds are full of combat injuries. After all, there is very little they can do for them beyond painkillers and warm beds and food. A doctor at the Academy Hospital knows of fifty-three cases. He's been told that treatments are being investigated and are fully funded. He doesn't believe it. He's been ordered not to talk about it. He stated that Research has suggested terminating those affected."

"How did you find this place?"

"I dug around in our Administrative Stacks, in the name of budgetary research. It's part of my job, after all, and I find it most informative. Everything's cross-referenced to the other Divisions of this Branch. I traced Werther's Supplies history. Supplies reclaims all our equipment upon our termination. Their tracking is actually more reliable than Spectacles'. His duffel was listed as located on the second floor of an abandoned warehouse. That address was the hospice."

"Your suggestions, Humphries?" Will's voice was even and cool.

"First. A very public donation of some of the money which was originally set aside for the Gather, which cannot be held while the Hospital covers those grounds. Use it for beds, blankets, food and a doctor who can prescribe pain medicines. I want to embarrass other Branches into paying a share. We need to spend it or we'll lose it next year anyway. We'll reassign those funds to Personnel for the duration of the war.

"Second. For you, as the local Director, to make these requests: Admin to arrange steady funding at the Division level or above; Auditing to supply some qualified legal help for the hospice inmates. If Housing's been receiving rent on a room from a current resident as well as a 'missing' Thorns sufferer, I suggest the patient's money be refunded and a thumping great fine collected by Auditing to be used for the hospice.

"Third. For Madame to force Housing and Maintenance to register the hospice as an official medical ward. Beds and warm blankets, the entire building properly cleaned, staffed, supplied and heated. I want the Cafeteria to step up, too, with hot meals served on-site to both the ambulatory and the bedridden. One of their seniors is running a soup kitchen nearby for the destitute who aren't yet in the hospice; I want that made official, and he is not to be punished for setting it up. Medical can't spare many qualified nurses, but they can certainly train the escaped undergraduates working there. If we can get them certified, they'll be put back on the official rolls in official capacities with official pay. The Academy has students who aspire to medical careers. They should be sent on short shifts to help at the hospice."

#black butler fanfiction

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