Be that as it may. Rupert didn’t give a toss what caused it. What Rupert wanted to know was how he could use it.
Given: some eldritch temporal feedback loop had suppressed magical phenomena on a near-global scale for several centuries until it collapsed in the face of an exponentially burgeoning computational substrate. It seemed likely to Rupert that powerful magical tools had been lost during the drought, rendered about as useful as cellphones in the wake of a disaster that took out the electrical grid they depended on. Similarly, it was possible that even while the drought was in progress, surviving practitioners had continued to create magical tools. Any such artifacts would now be preposterously powerful, supercharged by the wealth of mana available on tap. (Powerful enough, perhaps, to alter the past.) But they might well have been destroyed or misplaced during the drought. He’d long been in the habit of collecting useful-looking ritual objects, slapping golden handcuffs on any child of the great magical bloodlines who crossed his path. With the ascent of the New Management he upped his game, putting out feelers to look for any signs of the old and hidden tools of power resurfacing—anything that might contribute to the success of his Great Working. Stumbling across the scion of a family that had once held in their custody a great and terrible concordance—stumbling across her, with her unaware of her ancestors’ record—had been a wonderful stroke of luck. All that remained was to enslave her and motivate her to bring it to him.
Rupert snorted up the line of coke his butler had left out for him, then closed his eyes and waited for the sharp edge of his senses to kick in. Overindulging was dangerous, but coming to the attention of His Dark Majesty was even more deadly, and Rupe needed to be on top of his game right now. He killed the Guildhall speech, then pulled up one of his favorite videos: Ms. Starkey on the firing range in the sub-subbasement in London that wasn’t on the architectural drawings, working out her resentment on a paper target bearing Rupert’s silhouette.
Eve was self-consciously aware of the cameras in her office: she suspected or knew about the ones in her bedroom and bathroom. Her inhibitions made her delightfully easy to torment: whenever she seemed to be losing her edge, Rupert could wind her up again by demanding salacious verbal fellatio. Her barely concealed revulsion kept her keyed up and tense, and whenever she had too much time to spare he found additional tasks to ensure she faced an eighty-hour work week just to keep her head above water. She was already a workaholic; adding sexual frustration turned her into an office demon and deprived her of the time to wonder why Rupert had head-hunted her in the first place. Such a happy coincidence that he’d been looking for a new PA just as Eve had been desperate for help with her mother. Who was clearly suffering from K syndrome—or, as the public knew it, Metahuman Associated Dementia—which had led Rupert to research her lineage and, on that basis, immediately reel her in and wrap her up as tight as any spider ever wrapped a fly. The rest had all fallen into place: setting up the trail of bread crumbs to lead Eve towards his goal, putting the Bond into position for cleanup afterwards. It was just a shame that Bernard had gotten greedy and tried to turn the fake auction into a genuine one. Eve had surprised him by pulling in her estranged brother, but Rupert didn’t really care who fell victim to the family curse, as long as the book was legitimately in his possession at the end.
Certainly Rupert went to some lengths to keep his interest in her family and the history of their powers quiet, even though knowing he had such a powerful witch under his dominion turned him on. (Indeed, Rupert found power was the only aphrodisiac that worked worth a damn these days.) He wasn’t stupid enough to demand physical, as opposed to verbal, services that might push her into overt rebellion, a rebellion that would force him to fully play his hand. Indeed, Rupert only permitted himself to have physical contact with professionals these days—professionals who he paid to go away afterwards. But he quite enjoyed watching Eve at her most severe in leather and latex, compelled to work his will on some hapless fool who’d made the mistake of crossing him: and he could fantasize about her as he grew stiff. In fact … “Bathroom service request,” he commanded, holding down the call button on the panel by his cheek. “Send up the skinny blonde English chick, Jeeves, chop-chop that’s a good fellow.” He listened for a few seconds. “I’m in the tub. Lotioned, lubed, and shaved, I’m going to want it both ways. Jolly good, five minutes.”
He let go of the call button with a contented sigh, then reached for his (splash-proof) phone. It occurred to him that he hadn’t heard from Eve or the Bond for a couple of hours. Which meant his probe of the deadly time-crossed mansion should be well underway by now. Obviously that, as well as the PM’s unpleasant little surprise, was why he was feeling tense. Well, a brisk session of splashy-splashy and another line of coke should help clear his head.
And then, if they still weren’t ready to report, he’d have the chopper fly him to Knightsbridge, and he’d take personal control over the retrieval operation.
BACK TO THE FUTURE
Imp moved around restlessly as he filled Del in on the details of
