“Get dressed,” I tell her as I step into the bathroom. “You’ve been summoned for inquiry.”
* * *
I’m starting to wonder if Iris was born in a skirt and heels. It seems impractical, but it’s really the only thing that makes sense at this point. Otherwise, I cannot begin to understand why she endures it day in and day out, especially for something as dull as a trip to the Inquisition.
She’s selected her shortest skirt, the black one with the little silver buckles on the side, and she’s paired it with the platform boots that end somewhere mid-thigh. I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve this treat, but I’m also not foolish enough to ask.
Instead, I urge her ahead of me, watching her thick hips switch as she climbs the steps to the Inquisition Office.
She only makes it a few feet before I’m pawing at her. I know I shouldn’t, especially not here, but spending a night with a woman like Iris in your bed and keeping your hands to yourself is harder than it sounds when you haven’t had sex in over a month.
To my surprise, she doesn’t shoo me off. She lets me have my fill of her before we reach the door, and I even catch a smile curling at the edges of her lips as she ducks under my outstretched arm. Though her mood quickly sours as we step into the lobby.
I don’t blame her; this place feels like standing in a concrete tube. No windows, no doors, just stone on all sides, with a single desk in the center and a ceiling that stretches all the way up to the fiftieth floor. But I don’t think it’s the building that’s making Iris uneasy.
With every step, another head turns, so I make sure to keep her tucked close under my arm. If they want something to look at, they’ll have to make do with me.
Mrs. Gibbons, the old goblin who works the front desk, is busily sorting her papers as we approach, but I don’t wait for a break in her work. We’ll be standing here for hours if I do.
“Iris Ashbourne,” I announce. Then, when Mrs. Gibbons still doesn’t look up from her filing, I add. “And Elliot Cross.”
At that, her eyes lift, and her fat, freckled face draws down in disappointment.
“Again?” she asks.
“Again,” I affirm.
She sucks her teeth as she shuffles through the many stacks of papers in search of a blank sheet. When she finds one, she scribbles a few words out before lighting it aflame, then mutters for us to take a seat and that someone will be with us shortly.
I don’t bother sitting; if our past encounters are any indication, someone will be down in about thirty seconds. Besides, the chairs in here are uncomfortable, and I can shield Iris more easily if she stands along the wall.
“You okay?” I ask her.
She nods, and I realize that she is not nervous; she’s determined, and if there’s one thing I adore more than an angry Iris, it’s Iris on a mission.
“Ashbourne!”
The receptionist calls her name, and a short sprite with a clipboard appears beside the desk, waving us forward impatiently.
We follow him in silence to one of the empty concrete boxes they call offices, where a pale, slender man in an ill-tailored suit sits waiting behind a plain wooden desk.
“Mr. Cross, Ms. Ashbourne.”
His dull voice greets us as we enter, and he stands to introduce himself.
“Senior Inquisitor Malictus,” he says, not bothering to offer a hand.
He is tall, with the signature scaly markings of a kelpie creeping up his neck, and I wait until he returns to his seat before pulling out Iris’s chair and gesturing for her to do the same.
“Thank you for coming in voluntarily,” Malictus says, already flipping through his paperwork.
Between my file and hers, the pile is comically large, but he seems to be getting the hang of it.
“Sure,” I say. “The Crescent pack wants to lend itself to the inquiry in whatever way it can.”
He nods but says nothing as he continues searching through the documents. I’m not surprised that when he finds what he’s looking for, he starts with me.
“Mr. Cross,” he says, straightening in his chair. “This is not your first time here, correct?”
