Imp grinned cheekily. “I have an appointment with Evelyn Starkey.”
He thrust out a hand. The butler ignored it. “Who should I say is calling?”
“Ebeneezer Goode—nah, it’s her brother Jeremy, and we’re good, mate.”
At the word brother the butler’s face turned an intriguing shade of gray. “I’ll see if she’s available, sir,” he muttered, backing into the hallway. He maintained a wary eye contact while he retreated, as if he feared Imp might attack if he turned his back.
The interior was decorated pretty much as Imp expected of one of the snooty residences in this neck of the woods: boringly valuable antique furniture, a vestibule for a modern office at one side of the entrance (in what had clearly been a morning room, once upon a time), a security checkpoint and alarm panel opening off the other side. Someone with more money than taste had shoehorned a cramped elevator into the wall beside a closed door—at a guess, the former drawing room had been truncated to provide access to one of the subterranean minotaur-labyrinths where the oligarchs stored their treasure chests. Imp loved it to bits: I could totally use this as a set for Bad Guy Central, he thought, discreetly studying the decor as the butler conferred with the ornamental blonde at the receptionist’s workstation.
The receptionist nodded at him, the rigidity of her posture telegraphing apprehension; then she tapped a button on her desk phone. Imp didn’t need to be a lip-reader to figure out her words. “Miss Starkey, your brother is in the lobby.” Please get him out of here.
A few seconds later, the butler strolled towards him. “Follow me, sir.” Imp nodded, deliberately ignoring the whine of motors as the front door eased shut behind him. The butler ushered him directly to the elevator. “In here, please,” he said, as the doors slid open to reveal a small mirror-walled cubicle floored in Italian marble. “Your sister will meet you below.”
It did not escape Imp’s attention that the lift had three different security cameras and no visible control panel.
The lift slowly descended. When it stopped, the doors revealed a bland corporate lobby area. Only the decorative cornices distinguished it from a modern office building.
“Hello, Jeremy. Appropriately attired as ever. It’s been, what, two and a half years?”
“Closer to four,” Imp corrected. “You’ve changed,” he said, staring stupidly at his sister.
“Follow me.” Eve turned and clicked away on sky-high stilettos, Imp trailing behind.
“I like what you’ve done with your hair,” he snarked. It was very blonde and pinned in a tight bun. You had pink dreads and wore flower-printed DMs and hippie dresses when I was a kid.
“Come in,” she said as the door opened for her. She walked around a gigantic desk, then sat, very primly, in a huge and complicated office chair. She stared at him as the door hissed shut. There were no windows, just cameras in every corner, discreetly embedded in the cornices and skirting boards. “Sit down,” she suggested. Imp sat. “The doors are all remote-controlled. The building security computer monitors visitor movements. Face recognition technology, you know.”
Imp couldn’t stop himself. “What happens to non-approved visitors?”
Evelyn’s smile was warm enough to boil liquid nitrogen. “If I had a stroke right now, you could starve to death in here.”
“Then please don’t die? You’re the only sister I’ve got.” Arguably, he added silently. This polished, hard-shell version of his sister was unpleasantly distant, almost a stranger to him. “What do you do here?”
“Oh, this and that.” She lost the false smile. Without the mask she almost looked human, like the Evie he’d grown up with. Five years his elder, she’d always been the responsible one, somewhere between an elder sister and a younger aunt when he was a child. Now he studied her and realized something was wrong with her face: some aspect of her cheekbones, or maybe it was her chin or her nose, didn’t look quite right. It was almost as if she’d undergone a face transplant, leaving the underlying bone structure intact but blending her features with those of another woman. “I work for Mr. de Montfort Bigge, Jeremy. This is his London residence, and I’m his executive assistant.”
“Lovely.” Imp flung one knee across the other, leaned back, and forced himself to beam at her. A secretary, he thought disappointedly. For all her dedication she’s just a secretary? “What does Mr. Bigge do, exactly?”
“Oh, a bit of this and that. Investments and imports and exports, that sort of thing.” Her eyes narrowed.
“And what happened to you?” Imp looked at her. “This is hardcore, Eve. You’ve changed so much.” Too much.
“Now is not the time.” She sounded more irritated than offended.
“Really?” He stared. “What happened?”
“Reality happened. School of hard knocks, I suppose.” She gleamed like a Photoshop-retouched version of herself, flawless and glossy and inhumanly perfect. Her silk blouse probably cost more than Del’s entire wardrobe. She’d had dental work, evidently taken care of by the kind of orthodontist who serviced Hollywood stars and corporate sharks. “Or maybe I just had to grow up. It’s different for boys, I don’t expect you to understand.” She looked down her long, perfectly flawless nose at him.
Imp refused to be intimidated. “Don’t push it, sis. Anyway, you’ve only got five years on me.”
“True. But I still know how to deal with you, just like old times.” She smiled alarmingly and burst into rhyme, shocking Imp with half-forgotten memories: “Speak roughly to your little boy, and beat him when he sneezes; he only does it to annoy—”
“—Because he knows it teases, yes, yes, I get it, sis, no need to rub it
