Knight Life (8 page)

    
He chucked a thumb toward a far door and said, “Main elevator's out. Better use the freight 'round back.”

    
She headed down the hallway, departing the tiled floor and entering a back hall with cement flooring and a strip of green carpeting down the center that had enough holes in it to sink the
Titanic
. The corridor light was dodgy at best, flickering slightly and making her worry that within moments she was going to be plunged into darkness. But the lightbulb managed to keep its diminishing life sustained for a short time longer, and she made it to the freight elevator. She'd hoped there would be an elevator operator, but it was self-service. The elevator car itself was a rickety affair that moved up the shaft with a maximum of screeching and clanking. She felt out of place, neatly pressed and dressed, wearing high-heel shoes and trapped in a huge elevator with metal walls and floor. A dying bulb lit the elevator, and she felt as if she were being carted up to her execution. Then this bulb, unlike its brothers in the hallway, gave out, and it became so dark in the elevator that she literally could not see her hand in front of her.

    
“How nice. A little preview of death,” she muttered, as much to keep up her flagging spirits as anything else.

    
She had never been so grateful for anything as when the doors opened on the thirteenth floor. She stepped out
and the elevator bounced up and down like a yo-yo. As the doors closed behind her with a thud like a guillotine blade descending, she walked out into the main corridor. What she saw astounded her.

    
The offices of Arthur Penn were beautifully put together, but far from modern. All the furniture was antique; solid, dependable pieces everywhere she looked. The walls were paneled in knotty pine. The carpeting was deep plush in royal blue. Her breath was taken by the extreme contrast between this office and the rest of the building. It was almost as if one of them—the building or the offices—was in the wrong place. She started to wander about until a firm voice called her up short, saying, “Can I help you?”

    
She looked around and saw a fierce-looking receptionist seated at a desk, and she wondered how she had missed the woman the first time. She had the demeanor of a pitbull and, unlike the guard downstairs, seemed perfectly capable of wrestling intruders to the floor and tearing out their throats with her teeth. And enjoying it.

    
“Oh, yes, I'm sorry. I have an appointment. An appointment with Mr. Penn.”

    
The receptionist glanced down at a calendar on the edge of her uncluttered desk and asked, “You're Gwen?”

    
Gwen nodded.

    
The receptionist seemed slightly mollified by the fact that this person was supposed to be here, but still looked like she regretted not having an opportunity to give someone the heave-ho. She said, “Very well. Take a seat, please. Mr. Penn will be with you shortly.”

    
Gwen nodded her thanks, sat in an ornately carved chair and looked down at a coffee table next to her, on which several recent news magazines rested. She started to reach for one but then paused and asked, “Would you like me to fill out a form or something?”

    
“No. That won't be necessary.” The receptionist didn't even bother to glance at her. Instead she had returned to
staring resolutely ahead, like a griffin or some other mythical creature waiting for some intruder to try and breach the doors.

    
Why the hell had she thought of such a thing? Mythical beasts? Why had her mind wandered in that direction, of all things?

    
Still feeling confused as to her status, Gwen asked, “But how will the people in personnel know anything about me?”

    
The receptionist slowly swiveled her head back toward Gwen and focused on her, like an irritated snake studying an especially annoying bird. “We don't have a personnel department,” she said deliberately, as if addressing an imbecile. “Mr. Penn himself will see you and decide either yes or no. All right?”

    
“Yes. All right,” said Gwen, feeling completely cowed.

    
“Any more questions?” she asked in the tone of someone who didn't want to hear any.

    
“No, ma'am.”

    
The receptionist went back to watching. What appeared to be an unspeakably long time passed, and finally Gwen ventured in a small voice, “Nice weather we're having, isn't it?”

    
She'd barely gotten the words out when thunder rumbled from outside and rain smacked in huge droplets against the single office window. Gwen glanced heavenward.

    
“He will see you now,” said the receptionist abruptly. She was still looking away. What the hell was she watching for?

    
“Who will?” said Gwen, but quickly recovered. She stood and said, “Well, thank you. Thank you very much.” She smoothed her denim skirt. “You've been very kind.”

    
“No, I haven't,” was the tart response. “I've treated you like garbage.”

    
“I beg your—”

    
Now the receptionist had once again focused her attention
on Gwen. She spoke briskly and incisively, dissecting Gwen as if her words were scalpels. “You let people walk over you, dear, you'll never get anywhere.” She stabbed a finger at Gwen. “Your personal relationships have the success rate of buggy-whip manufacturers, right?”

    
Gwen drew herself up to her full height. “Now I don't think that's any of your—”

    
“You don't think? Hmph. I bet.” The woman chucked a thumb at a closed office door, and it was only then that Gwen noticed what incredible green eyes she had. “Go in. He's expecting you. And for pity's sake, don't let yourself be used as a doormat. You've got too pretty a face to let it be filled with shoe prints.” And with that she went back to watching the front entrance.

    
Silently Gwen walked past her, completely confused. She went right up to the door, then swung about on her heel to face the receptionist.

    
There was no one there.

    
Gwen's eyebrows knit in confusion. She walked back to the desk, looked around. Nothing. Under the desk was nothing. But the receptionist hadn't gone out the door—it had creaked horrendously when Gwen had entered; she would have heard an exit. Out of curiosity she rested a hand on the cushion of the seat behind the desk. It was cool, as if no one had been sitting there all day.

    
“Ooookaydokay,” she said finally, went quickly to the office door that the receptionist had indicated, and swung it open.

    
She was a little surprised to see a bearded man deep in discussion with a boy who looked to be about eight years old. They were speaking in low, intense tones, and it was quite clear to Gwen that there was none of the typical adult condescension in the man as he argued with the boy. Not the slightest. Apparently this Arthur Penn, if that was who this in fact happened to be, treated everyone as an equal.

    
Either that or he had a thing for little boys. This naturally
set off alarm bells in Gwen's head, but she didn't want to rush to judgment. Still, she promised herself that she'd keep a wary eye on him, and if there was even the slightest sign of any impropriety, not only would she be out of there but she'd make personally sure that the police were brought in.

    
The most curious thing she heard was the scolding tone of the young boy. “The main thing you have to do differently this time around is think things through! That was always your greatest failing, thinking.”

    
“I've had plenty of time to dwell on mistakes ...”

    
“Plenty of time may not be enough time. You have to promise me that you're not going to be impetuous. That you'll make calm, considered decisions, rather than impulsive notions from your gut.”

    
“Such decisions come from my heart, Merlin, wherein all true knowledge lies—”

    
“Oh, bollux! The heart is nothing but a glorified water pump, with about as much knowledge as a sofa cushion ... or for that matter, your gut. The only thing of use to you is your brain, Arthur, your brain!”

    
“Honestly, Merlin, sometimes you treat me as if I'm a child.”

    
Suddenly the young boy was glancing in her direction. “Arthur, we have a guest.”

    
“I am perfectly capable of making decisions and watching out for … pardon?”

    
“A guest.” The boy was skinny, his hands too large for his arms, his feet too large for his legs. His silken brown hair was longish in the back, and his ears virtually stuck out at right angles to his head. He was nattily attired in dark blue slacks, shirt, striped tie, and a blazer with a little sword emblem on the pocket. Bizarrely, the man's clothing was identical, but the boy looked better in it. Penn turned, and the moment he saw Gwen, he appeared startled, as if he recognized her from somewhere. She couldn't imagine from where that might be; he was a total
stranger to her. But he quickly covered whatever might be going through his mind and instead gave a broad smile. The kid he'd addressed as Merlin, on the other hand, frowned deeply.

    
Gwen found herself staring into Arthur's eyes. She had never seen such dark eyes, she thought. Dark as a bottomless pit, which she would willingly plunge into …

    
She tore her gaze from him, swung it over to the boy he'd called Merlin, and stifled a gasp. It was like looking at two different people in the same body. The lines of the boy's face were youthful enough, but his eyes were like an old man's, smoldering with wisdom of ages and resentment when he looked at her. He seemed to have what could only be called an “old soul.” There was a wisdom, a depth in those eyes that was not only beyond what she saw in children, it was beyond what she saw in most adults. He frightened her terribly, and she stared down at her shoes.

    
Penn appeared oblivious to her thoughts. “How unforgivably rude of me,” he said. “You're the young woman who was sent over by the employment office.”

    
“That's right,” she said quietly.

    
Penn regarded her for a time and then said, “Is there something particularly intriguing about your feet, my dear?”

    
She looked up, her cheeks coloring. “I'm sorry. I just—” She laughed, somewhat uncertain. “Your, uh … your receptionist rattled me slightly.”

    
“Ah, Miss Basil. Yes, she'll do that. What is your name, child?”

    
The boy had asked the question, and the phrasing was, at the very least, extraordinary. She gaped openly at him. “My what?”

    
“Nom de guerre. Moniker. Name.”

    
“Oh, name!”

    
Merlin let out a sigh, clearly not one to suffer fools
gladly. In the meantime she managed to stammer out, “G-G-Gwendolyn. “

    
“I'm sure you won't mind if we simply call you Gwendolyn and leave the guh-guh-guh that preceded it to more formal occasions,” Penn said, deadpan.

    
Then she saw him smile again and managed a nod, saying wryly, “That'd be fine.”

    
She realized that Arthur was staring at her, but he did not look away, continuing to gaze at her in a manner that was wonderfully open, and unembarrassed. “Forgive me for staring so,” he said, “but you remind me a great deal of someone I once knew—”

    
“Arthur,” said the boy warningly, “what were we just discussing?”

    
“Merlin, please,” sighed Arthur in obvious irritation. “My apologies, Gwendolyn. I am Arthur Pendr—Arthur Penn. My associate”—he chuckled slightly on the word— “is Merlin.”

    
“Last name?” asked Gwen.

    
“Last one I intend to use,” snapped Merlin.

    
“As you know,” continued Arthur, “I am in the market to hire a personal assistant. This may not seem necessary now, but I assure you in the months to come this office will become quite busy. I would like to know all about your background, everything you've done in the past several years. We have several people to see, so I'll tell you right now that it may be a week or two before we can let you and your agency know for certain. Stop glowering, Merlin. You'll get crows' feet. Remember the last time that happened, you couldn't walk properly for days.”

    
Gwen laughed, but Arthur stared at her with an upraised eyebrow and said, “Was something funny?”

    
“No. Not at all. I understand. Find out about me, more people to see, a week or two for response. Got it.”

    
“Right. After all, any decisions we make along these lines must be thoughtful and considered,” he said, tossing Merlin a glance. If he was waiting for the boy to nod in
approval, he was going to be disappointed. The boy simply sat there like a disapproving statue. Clearing his throat, Arthur said, “Fine then. Let's begin.”

    
Arthur pulled around a comfortable chair for Gwen and seated himself across from her. He leaned back, steepled his long fingers, and said, “So, miss … I'm sorry, Gwen, I didn't catch your last name.”