|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Aug 16, 2008 22:39:06 GMT -5
"I am not sulking," Basil said, rather emphatically (and angrily), even though he was pretty sure that he was indeed sulking. Working on a case for this long got on his nerves, especially when it seemed that the killer was a heart attack, or a gun to the head, neither of which were helpful, since whoever had shot the people had made the bullets himself, and as a result, there were no serial numbers on them.
This made Basil angry, and also disturbed, which was why he couldn't sleep these days. Nightmarish scenarios in which the killer managed to get everyone in the city, and then him, with him powerless to do anything but watch, plagued his every sleeping moment, and some of his waking ones, too. Was he slipping? Was that why he could do nothing but watch as people all over town dropped dead in what appeared to be broad daylight? Or was this killer unstoppable? Was it someone who they would never be able to apprehend, and bring to justice?
If that was the case, then all of Basil's nightmares (except for the one in which he was turned into a ficus) would come true. He turned to look at Caden, his nose wrinkling slightly at the unfamiliar smell. It wafted around him and made him feel oddly like he was standing in a marketplace, on some rugs, trying to convince a salesman that no he did not want to buy his merchandise, and please, could he go back to his hotel now.
"Look, just because I haven't eaten all day and haven't slept in a while doesn't mean that you have to take me away from my very, very important work, and bring me to some..."
He looked around, and frowned. He had never been here before, and he said it. "I've never been here before. What is this place? And why does it smell like curry?"
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Aug 19, 2008 0:42:54 GMT -5
Caden hung on tightly to Basil's elbow, careful to make sure that he was in control. He wasn't, of course, but he probably could delay Basil bolting out of the restaurant by a few seconds, thus satisfying his destroyed pride. "Basil, you cannot work at your maximum capacity if you have neither eaten nor rested. It's just not healthy," Caden intoned, almost meaning it. It was too bad that his boss did all of his best work while half crazed by sleep-deprived delusions and starvation hallucinations. "It smells like curry because they serve curry and you are going to eat curry. This is where I get my Indian carry-out from. It's terrific," he said, employing the no-nonsense voice that he saved for noncooperative houseplants and his genius boss. He smiled pleasantly at the young Indian woman serving as the hostess that afternoon. "Two, please."
Her expression of incredulity somewhat increased at this proclamation. "For here, Mr Addington?" she asked, hand hovering over the stack of menus on her podium.
"Yes. We'll sit down. Make it a booth if you can. Mr Dixon," he said, name-dropping, "isn't feeling very well." He flashed her another smile, and they were whisked into a large, well-lit, private back-room that he had never seen before. So much the better. They could discuss work without compromising the investigation too much. He sat himself down, accepted a menu, and decided that he should probably start wondering if Basil had ever eaten Indian food before, and if not, would he like it? and what would he do to Caden if he didn't?
"I usually get the vindaloo, but that's sort of intense if you don't do a lot of spicy stuff. Anyway, we could get a korma and, um, a tandoori chicken or something. How hungry are you?" Caden looked at Basil. He suspected it might be hard to get an accurate answer to that question. "Anyway, we'll get some naans or rotis to go with it and some pilau rice. Are you thirsty? We could get you a lassi. They're good." It'll stop you from blacking out, you starving twat. What the fuck am I supposed to do with you if you pass out, try to avoid the ricocheting agony and drive you home in your own car? If I have to get your keys out of your pockets, it's not fucking sexual harassment. It's saving your goddamn ass. Ugh, I'm charging this.
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Aug 20, 2008 1:52:49 GMT -5
Basil let Caden lead him into the back, mostly because he didn't really notice much that was going on in front of him. He did see a man in the corner, chatting up a pleasant - but bored-looking - woman. It was probably some kind of date, and she did not seem all that impressed in the fact that he had chosen an Indian restaurant.
It was much the same emotion that Basil was feeling at the moment, although to be quite frank, he didn't care all that much. He didn't say anything in response to the comment about Indian carry-out (it was always obvious what Caden brought home. It was the shape of the boxes. Not that he watched or anything). He did manage to stand slightly behind Caden when he confronted the hostess. He almost agreed with her incredulity, but decided to remain silent.
And then he tuned Caden out, deciding that if there were going to be insults towards him, he had might as well not hear them. The moment the woman led them into the back-room, and they were sitting down, and out of sight of the pair of girls who were giggling about a boy at another table, Basil looked back at Caden.
"Not very," he said, looking at the menu for a second before looking back towards the door. What if one of the people in this restaurant were the killer? It could be the hostess. While she may have been smiley and kind-looking, it was a very real possibility that she could have shot...what, thirty-some people. The feeling he got off of her was not that of a cold-blooded killer, but one never knew. After all, there were literally no clues, and Basil was off-kilter these days.
He looked back at the menu for another second. "Slightly less intense," he said, although he was pretty sure that his shadow half would just gobble up the fire and calories in a couple of snaps. He hadn't eaten in quite a while, and he didn't want to eat too much too fast. Sure, Caden had to pick the one restaurant where he wasn't familiar with the native language.
Well, he supposed that an adventure wouldn't be so bad. "What's that one you said?" he asked, and leaned backwards. "I'll get that one."
What was he supposed to talk about? Work? Oh Caden, remember that building we were just in? Good air conditioning, huh? How about that killer who I can't catch, huh? Good times.
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Sept 5, 2008 22:43:34 GMT -5
Caden suppressed a smile. The dash of schadenfreude that runs through every person's blood was calling to him. "Sounds good," he said simply, looking forward immensely to watching Basil huff and puff over the slayingly hot vindaloo curry. He knew what he would order without looking at the menu. Better get something tame in case Basil decided not to eat the vindaloo. Caden might manage to convince him to trade dishes or share or something. After all, Basil might be a little woozy. Caden could try switching their plates. Most likely, Basil would insist on eating the curry whether or not he liked it and pretending that it wasn't burning the roof of his mouth off.
Caden groaned.
A waiter wandered over and stood casually next to their table. "Anything to drink?" Caden, trained by childhood and pocketbook, instantly asked for just water, thanks. He eyed Basil, speculating about his tolerance for spiciness. Basil might be the sort of man who couldn't tolerate the slightest heat. You never knew. Caden chewed his lip, wondering if he could get fired for taking his boss to a restaurant he hated. Of course, he knew that he could get fired for asking his boss out to lunch. This, however, was to preserve his job.
Entirely to preserve his job.
He mentally ran through his standing order with Bombay Bistro, fiddled with the napkin he had put in his lap, sipped at the water that the waiter brought him —straight from the tap and luke warm— and read over the menu again. And again. A korma, then, a nice, simple vegetable korma. No one could object to something like that, and theirs was flavorful enough that Caden could manage to eat the entire dish. Very odd not to be sharing, but Caden knew where the line was (most of the time) and he respected it (most of the time). Basil liked to distance himself. He could deal with that. After all, he wasn't married to the man.
"Basil?" Caden said, trying to infuse all the formality of "sir" into his boss's name. "You don't think you could explain why you, er, live next to me, could you?" Because I'm just a bit curious about why you're creepily stalking me. Do you peer into my bedroom at night and watch as I eat breakfast in the mornings? Do you send your cat over to mangle my plants? Do you slide into the shadows of my house and sneak around while I sleep? Oh, Basil, you sad fuck. I shouldn't be a hobby. Oh, well, anything to keep Basil's mind of work.
Unless it was somehow related to work. That would be typical.
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Sept 5, 2008 22:58:13 GMT -5
Basil agreed with Caden's "Just water", because he was pretty sure that one couldn't order milk in an Indian restaurant. Or at least, that one wasn't supposed to. But everywhere with spicy food should have milk (and tranquilizers) available to the general public. Anyways, it wasn't like he had never eaten spicy food before.
After all, he had lived in Spain for a while when he'd been ten. It wasn't as if he had really enjoyed the spicy food, but he had eaten it before. He distinctly remembered his dad laughing after... Well. That wasn't an experience he really wanted to relive. Although today, he might just. People had told him that there was nothing spicier than a well-cooked Indian dish, and while Basil hadn't tried many Indian dishes, he had definitely eaten a few.
Caden jerked him out of his fond reverie, and Basil raised an eyebrow.
"Pardon?" he said, the look of slight disgust that his fond reverie had inspired slipping away. Oh sure, he was the one who had been tricky. He was the one living next to Caden. Caden who was some University student who had moved here at Basil's request. Sure, that was a little bit weird, but it wasn't Basil who had chosen Caden's house for him, at least not that Basil could remember. He could distinctly recall being intrigued as to who was moving in next to him, then immediately disinterested. If it was just his colleague (servant, slave, coworker), then why should he be interested?
In fact, it had made the whole subterfuge that was his life all the more difficult. All of a sudden there had been Caden, working the same hours as him, and therefore coming out of his house at the same time...Basil had been forced to hide in the bushes that first morning, and had subsequently been late for the first and only time. In response, he had changed his hours, and anyways, patrolling the streets was a good idea, wasn't it?
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, taking a drink of his water. "You're the one who lives next to me."
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Oct 7, 2008 20:27:36 GMT -5
Caden suppressed a smile. The dash of schadenfreude that runs through every person's blood was calling to him. "Sounds good," he said simply, looking forward immensely to watching Basil huff and puff over the slayingly hot vindaloo curry. He knew what he would order without looking at the menu. Better get something tame in case Basil decided not to eat the vindaloo. Caden might manage to convince him to trade dishes or share or something. After all, Basil might be a little woozy. Caden could try switching their plates. Most likely, Basil would insist on eating the curry whether or not he liked it and pretending that it wasn't burning the roof of his mouth off.
Caden groaned.
A waiter wandered over and stood casually next to their table. "Anything to drink?" Caden, trained by childhood and pocketbook, instantly asked for just water, and tap was fine, really. No, no, he didn't want carbonated water. Really. He was sure. He cocked an eyebrow and shot Basil a gentle glare across the table. "I was assured that you were a gentle, kindly, old cat lady who was never seen. Until a little while ago, I was sure that was true. How the h— Why didn't you say anything and, considering that we work in the same place and—" in theory "—the same hours, how did I never see you going to work?"
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Oct 7, 2008 20:54:21 GMT -5
"Oh, don't make me laugh," Basil muttered, perfectly happy with water. It was, after all, free. He wondered where to start his strange, strange tale, and decided that he would start where any rational person would, which was the beginning.
"First of all, our neighbours are inherently loyal. I made sure to pick a neighbourhood that was completely inhabited by those elderly types who are like New Yorkers in that they believe that Shawl is the only place to live. They would stand up for any of their neighbours if they were in a pinch, if only to keep Shawl as it is." He paused, and fiddled with the napkin on the table, before clearing his throat. "That, and when I moved in, I hired an old woman to go around and tell the neighbours that she was the one who lived there. I was just 'the truck driver', who helped move things into nice...Used-To-Be-Mrs-But-Now-Only-Ms-Johnson's house."
It had been easy enough to convince a Former Mrs. Johnson to play along: she had told the neighbours that she wasn't to be disturbed but thank you for the pie and cookies, and then he had stayed in the house while she had driven the truck away, less poor than she had used to be, and with good faith that if ever she had another financial crisis, she could house-sit for lovely Paula Dixon's darling son. And the neighbours had all been gullible: they hadn't noticed the switch between Basil and Ms. Johnson.
"After that, it was easy enough. My hours are irregular enough that they aren't awake when I come around, or leave, and I usually park my car up the street, except when I'm 'visiting my old and terribly lonely mother'. And when I say that my hours are irregular enough, I mean that I get in after you have, and leave before you do. You remember that day with Jeun. That day, I slept in."
He couldn't tell Caden that he hadn't bought the house under his own name, and that as a somewhat paranoid teenager, he had taken out bank accounts and forged passports in his alternate identity, Alexander Johnson, son of Louisa and Thomas Johnson, the latter of whom was now deceased. He had shown up to his funeral, and a few months later was on his way to owning his first real home. It was still his, even though it wasn't technically...his.
"Just how long does it take to make curry?" Basil asked, as his food-starved cells were beginning to wonder if he remembered just how fast his metabolism was.
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Oct 15, 2008 19:16:46 GMT -5
He stared at Basil. All right, he could accept that as the truth —or he could try to find out what the doubtlessly worse truth actually was. Caden decided to go with the Basil-bribes-the-little-old-lady theory because at least it didn't involve, say, Basil killing anyone and stealing their social security number. Damn, that would've been hard to come to terms with. If his name weren't really Basil, who had he been bitching out all these years? That'd just be unfair. Somehow, he'd have avoided the moral burden of his actions as though it was, you know, the name that really mattered.
Well, it did. Caden worked for Basil. If he were not-Caden and Basil were not-Basil, then where would they be?
Just order the goddamn curry. "Not that long." He leaned forward and flagged a server who wandered over, looking bored and annoyed at being asked to do her job. "I'm sorry, but we're in something of a hurry. Could you take our orders now, please?" Caden said, trying to ignoring the tide of unhappiness drifting toward him. Urgh. Women. So emotional and sensitive and always so eager to get angry. It was fucking annoying and he didn't need the goddamn headache. She nodded vaguely. Gosh, thanks. "I'll have the saag paneer."
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Oct 15, 2008 21:56:26 GMT -5
"Vindaloo or something," Basil said, eyeing the waitress with suspicion. Either she wasn't getting paid enough, or she was unhappily serving diligent patrons of the law and there was some kind of shady operation going on in this restaurant. How was he supposed to know? He didn't come here regularly, although he supposed that Jeun might know. The smell of curry could be to cover up the smell of gunpowder, although was Basil mixing up the forties with the present? Or was it that they used gunpowder still in some places...or...was it just a lot of curry?
"Anyways I couldn't tell you because then my enemies could know. And, actually, they might already know...have you been in contact with any telepaths lately, and who exactly are they working for?"
Of course as soon as Caden found out where Basil lived, he would meet a telepath. After all these years of steering clear of them and thinking very loudly about popsicles whenever they came near (or at least people he suspected to be telepaths, namely that tiny grocer woman who had a shifty look about her like she was the enemy), it had to be Caden who was his downfall. Oh, cruel world.
"That counts as my question, by the way." Basil nodded, and then drank some water, which was delightfully cold. The heat, both outside and in this restaurant was enough to make him crazy, but maybe it was just because he was overly sensitive to heat. "If we're doing that question for a question thing."
It would be useful to know who the telepaths were in this town.
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Oct 28, 2008 17:27:14 GMT -5
Part of Caden's mind begged the woman to take pity on Basil's tongue and go for the "or something." He glanced over at Basil, and his eyes narrowed as he gently felt out the emotions drifting off his boss. Was Basil constructing some sort of elaborate conspiracy theory involving their waitress? He sighed. Probably. That was what Basil did; that was why he was such an incredible detective; that was why he seemed like a complete lunatic to the average human being.
Sometimes, it frightened Caden that he could follow Basil's logic.
He propped his chin up on his elbows and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with cardamom-scented air and masking the anxiety and hatred and misery and joy flowing from the other patrons. Caden loved Indian food. He loved it more than he loved most things and almost as much as he loved his plants. He loved it more than his job and nearly as much as he loved his camera, though not half as much as he loved photography. It was delicious and the perfect pick-me-up after Basil spent an entire day trying to show Caden how worthless he was (which was very, very, very worthless). It had only gotten worse since Daphne had left, though he couldn't say he missed her. Ugh, women were so emotional. It was disgusting. They made him feel dizzy and nauseated by turns and it was simply miserable to be around them a quarter of the month and the thought made his skin crawl.
And he might have been a touch jealous that Basil seemed to like her quite a bit. After all, he didn't get to poke about in Basil's office uninvited. All right, he had a free pass into Filetopia, but that was only because he sometimes need to get to the closet at the other end and because he was a very fastidious duster.
Caden stared at his boss the nut job. "Your enemies. Your enemies?" The trouble was that Basil probably had a point. People had enemies in Shawl, especially nasty people like Basil. Well. People-who-pretended-to-be-nasty-for-the-sake-of-their-reputation like Basil. "Actually," he said, sipping the glass of water that a busboy brought him, "I have met a telepath lately. She works in Mister Kazin's bookshop, but I doubt she works for Mister Kazin. She's, well. I don't think she'd be very helpful to have on your side." Also, he thought, her mind feels like mint when she pokes through your brain. It's fucking weird and not very subtle at all. "Don't worry. I know just the person who can do all my book-shopping for me." Caden didn't tell Basil that he meant him.
Were they doing the question for question thing? Uh. Not as far as Caden was concerned. "You know, normal people just have conversations sometimes, even with their employees. But, uh. Okay, my question is: why do you keep all the sticks from your popsicles?" He would ask about the popsicles themselves or the never turning any lights on or the liking cats, but he suspected that there weren't good answers for those questions.
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Oct 28, 2008 18:20:11 GMT -5
This news, about a telepath, was very interesting indeed. However, so long as they weren't specifically working for his enemies, they could always be swayed to his side. It depended on the type of telepath, but Basil was reasonably sure that if he couldn't convince the telepath directly, then he could at least talk to them through Caden, who was usually convincing... Well, this wasn't strictly true, but at least he could make a very sad and pitiable face, which was usually pretty convincing, at least for Basil.
At least the telepath worked for Jeun, or with Jeun. It would not be difficult to sway Jeun over to his side, as Basil knew things that Jeun surely did not. He couldn't think of any things off the top of his head, but surely there was something he could do to ensure that this telepath would not blab all of his secrets.
"Maybe I'll just send you," he muttered, without realizing he'd said it out loud. If he sent Caden, who already knew this telepath, then she would be able to tell Caden what she needed in return for her silence, or help. That way, Basil wouldn't have to establish a connection, which was never fun to do.
"What? Popsicle sticks?" Basil stopped wondering about the telepath. Clearly this was a significantly more important part of the conversation. "Why do I keep them?"
He paused. This was highly secretive information, which he had never given anyone, that he knew of. There could, of course, have been telepaths who gleaned it from his mind while he sat there, not knowing anything about it. "I, uh. It's, well, you know. Well, no you don't, or you wouldn't have asked. Haha. Er, well, they're in my house. And I need them. To...to build...well, it's, it's big and made of popsicle sticks..."
Quickly, Basil took a drink of water, and tapped his finger on the cup as he tried to figure out how to phrase it. "Well, see, I have this model train set...and instead of making it out of foam...or things...I use popsicle sticks..."
It's Shawl, he would have said, but the waitress was back, and she was as shifty-looking as ever. Or maybe she was just tired. It was definitely shiftiness.
"Yep that's it, so, my turn, and there will be no regular conversations because what is the use of that. So, why do you have so many plants?"
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Oct 28, 2008 18:51:00 GMT -5
Caden almost laughed. Poor Basil couldn't possibly know how good a repartee he and Zahra had. "That's probably not a great idea. She and I, well, uh. We don't exactly get along too well. At all. I think that most people don't notice when she fiddles in their minds, but I can sort of feel it? And she didn't much like that," he said, attempting a slight understatement. He liked helping Basil and all, but well, that just didn't seem like a great idea. She'd probably prefer that Basil himself talk to her. She was the sort of person who liked feeling important.
When Basil said that they were to build a model train set, it was as though someone were saying to him, "You see, he's perfectly normal after all." Well, he was as perfectly normal as weird old cat-loving bachelors who stared at dead bodies a lot ever were, and that was enough for Caden. He grinned, feeling rather like a loon. What did he do when Benjamin wanted to fuss about in it? Did he snap at the cat? Did the cat just know not to touch it?
Okay, this was Basil's cat. He probably did just know.
Caden lit up at the question about his plants. He just liked plants, but well, Basil probably didn't, so he'd have to find a way to explain this to a non-plant-lover and non-emotional-trashcan. It was hard. Plants don't have feelings was his first thought, but that just sounded weird like he had problems with people who had feelings, which okay, was true, but that really wasn't the point here. The point was: plants. He liked them. They were cute and low maintenance and cheerful, and sure they couldn't greet you at the door when you came home unless you put them in the foyer, but they didn't pee on the living room carpet, either.
He was going to say, "Okay. Well, the plants are sort of like Benjamin, only, you see, when I had a dog when I was in high school, I could always sort of feel when it was having a bad day and when it was lonely, and when he was dying from old age, I could feel that, too. So I tried goldfish, right? But they died after a couple days and they were the crankiest, saddest things I'd ever had to live with and so I figured, hey, plants don't feel anything, right? And I bought a plant. They're sort of fun to take care of, and I like seeing them bloom, and this is a good area for things that bloom all year round," but instead, he shrugged and said, "I just like plants, okay?"
He sipped at his water again. "Does that count as an answer, or do you get another question?"
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Oct 29, 2008 16:04:20 GMT -5
Basil catalogued this information about the telepath. This was much like his conversation with Jeun, only he didn't have to work very hard to decipher what Caden was saying, perhaps because he had gotten good at reading him. And while Caden seemed to be tiring of the little question for a question game, Basil didn't know how to tell him that he had long since lost the ability to have a 'normal conversation'.
Instead of wondering how to phrase it, Basil leaned back, and said, "I don't know what else we could talk about aside from things gotten from this sort of game. I don't watch movies, or listen to music, or go about learning the new fashions or whatever they are. I know how to ask questions, and how to figure out whether someone is lying or not," which Caden hadn't been about the plants, even though it had clearly not been the whole truth (and Basil hoped that Caden couldn't tell that he hadn't been completely truthful about his model train set). "And, I know models. The only thing I don't know about models is how to get them to realistically imitate life, except by magic, and I don't know any magic-wielders personally enough to ask them for this sort of favour."
He shrugged, and drank some more water, hoping that the food would get there soon enough so that he didn't die of hunger. It was unlikely, but possible: maybe he would get so angry at the waitress that he would charge at her, and as a result, some patron of the restaurant would grievously injure him in order to preserve the safety of their waitress. Or maybe the owner of the restaurant would blind him by throwing curry in his eyes, and he would have to live his life alone in his house, with only a cat and a to-scale model of Shawl to feel with his desolate fingers...
"Sorry, was that a question?" he asked, snapping out of his reverie, and looking at Caden quizzically.
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Nov 3, 2008 23:47:31 GMT -5
Caden sighed. "Well, you could tell me about yourself. You must have done something before you became my boss. You could even tell me about cases you had before I came to work for you." Really, was it so much to ask to have a normal, non-dead-people-related conversation? He knew that Basil could do it when caught unawares, but putting him on the spot seemed to spook him. He was very much like a butterfly that way, though he was rather the opposite of a cat who would disappear instantly if you surprised them.
He was totally and completely inhuman.
He listened absorbedly to Basil accounting his models nonsense. Caden smiled. He could be useful for once, then. "Well, I know a magic user who might be able to help you. I've only bumped into her once, but I think that, with a little persuasion, she might agree to give your models the spark that would animate them. I mean, she seemed capable of those sorts of things if a bit clumsy, and we did have lunch. I think I've got her card somewhere." He tried to remember back to his meeting with Imogene and what they had done and how badly they had parted. She had seemed nice enough, and he hoped that she would be agreeable to doing a little favor for someone like Basil. Maybe in exchange for him looking into the case she had bothered him about? That would please her, he was sure of it. She seemed like a do-gooder. He wasn't sure why Basil hadn't taken to her. Maybe, she hadn't shown him enough deference. He always suspected that was why he hadn't liked Daphne.
Or why he liked Daphne too much.
Caden had never been sure. He was just damn glad that the bitch was gone. He had been here the longest, and he wasn't letting go of the edge that long acquaintance gave him. He might almost, he thought, have been Basil's friend if, well, Basil had friends. He didn't; he was Basil.
"No, no, not really."
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Nov 4, 2008 12:38:01 GMT -5
"Uh," Basil said, not really one for divulging personal information, "You know, the whole childhood thing with my, uh, parents. And then, I had, you know, school? Um, there was those required years of low-pay service, which I did in New York and Los Angeles, and...there wasn't really anything that exciting there. Enraged humans shooting their loved ones, ashamed teenagers trying to be creative in killing themselves, illegal immigrants masquerading as concerned citizens. It was just kind of the usual sort of...city thing. Ones where supernaturals aren't just out in the open like...some kind of thing out in the open. Not like ours, which is significantly more exciting, if also frustrating. I did make some enemies there, but they're all human and although they have many, many friends, I've managed to escape from them so far."
It had been a good couple of years, learning how to build up a list of contacts, associating with people on the other side of the law, and learning from someone so much smarter than he was.
At Caden’s mention of a witch, Basil squinted a little. He had hoped, sure, that Caden would be creating his own list of contacts, but Caden had never really shown an interest in that sort of thing before. Maybe each person made their list differently, and Caden had just been taking a little longer.
“A magic user?” Maybe he hadn’t been working hard enough in this town to meet people. It wasn’t as if he went out of his way to find new people, most of the time. People weren’t awake when he was wandering the streets, so it was difficult to make acquaintances. “Very interesting. What could I do in exchange for this favour?”
|
|