No Hero by Jonathan Wood Read Free Book Online Page B

do.”
    Well that’s all my fears allayed... Oh wait.
    “We don’t need him,” Kayla states.
    “We need someone.”
    I’m half tempted to just turn and hoof it there. Except that’s not what Kurt Russell would do, is it? And, anyway, that seems to have been enough to silence Kayla. There’s the sound of a door opening and then closing. Then nothing. After a moment I touch the shoulder of the bloke in fatigues.
    “Onwards then,” I say.
    He gives me an awkward half smile. A pity smile. But we go on. And then there’s the door to conference room B, and my chaperone knocks, and I am delivered.
    “Good luck, mate,” he says. But I’m starting to worry if it might be too late for that.
    Shaw opens the door.
    “Agent Wallace,” she says. She checks her watch. “You’re a touch late.”
    Suddenly being Agent Wallace seems a lot like being myself at age twelve knocking on Mrs. Watton’s classroom door for the first time. Still, Shaw stands aside, whereas Mrs. Watton gave me and the class a five-minute lecture on the evils of tardiness, complete with references to Satan, unwholesome thoughts, and potential blindness. Odd woman, actually, Mrs. Watton
    Conference room B is as plain and functional as any room back at the police station. There’s a couple of tables shoved together, a few office chairs scattered about, an over-sized whiteboard. I had sort of hoped for images of pentagrams and hieroglyphics, or runes and scientific equations, or possibly just the rough sketch of some hideous monster from the outer limits of space, but instead there’s just the usual mess of half-erased lines that seem to appear whenever a whiteboard is exposed to the air for over six seconds.
    I’d expected a veritable host of people to meet, and palms to press. Even the smallest murder case warrants a team of at least a few police officers. The end of the world would seem to require fifty or more. But there are just three others sitting around the conference table.
    Kayla is there, looking broody and murderous. I can’t see her sword but her red flannel shirt is baggy enough to conceal multiple death-dealing instruments. I look for the seat furthest from her.
    The best bet seems to be a chair next to a tall, skinny, collegiate-looking chap with a scruffy beard. He wears thick, black-rimmed glasses and a welcoming smile.
    “Clyde,” he tells me as I sit down, and pumps my hand vigorously. Nice chap, I suspect. “And this is Tabby.” He indicates the girl sitting opposite him.
    She’s young, mousy, and I think Pakistani, though her skin is mostly hidden behind tattoos. Text scrawls its way up one arm and something like ivy pokes out from a thick sleeve that coats the other. Her nose is pierced once, her lip twice, I lose count checking out her ears. White streaks through her dark hair build to a checkerboard pattern around the base.
    She places a foot, clad in a platform Doc Marten, on the table and informs me, “It’s Tabitha.”
    Probably also lovely. Probably not nearly as terrifying as Kayla. Probably everything’s going to be fine. Probably
    I wipe sweat from my palms and smile around the room. I try to make it seem like I’m jolly and at ease. Not sure how well that goes.
    Shaw takes a seat opposite me and consults her watch again. “We’re behind,” she says. There’s a quick glance at Kayla and me. The offenders, I guess. I try to look contrite, but I don’t think Kayla bothers.
    “I’d hoped we could do some formal introductions,” Shaw continues, “but Clyde, you and Agent Wallace here have face-to-face with the Sheilas in just under sixty, and you know what the traffic is like.” She doesn’t bother looking at us for confirmation. Not exactly a democracy here. Still, bold leadership, and all that.
    Probably fine.
    “You’ll be consulting them on a pronouncement Ophelia delivered at oh-seven-thirty-six this morning.” She flicks through some notes lying on the table, pulls out one sheet of paper.