Lisa Smedman - The Lucifer desk

Carla shut off the encyclopedia as the taxi came to a stop outside a brick wall fronted by a heavy, wrought-iron gate. The wall completely encircled a number of ultramodern condominium units designed to look like terraced pueblos of adobe brick. The dun-colored condos looked strangely out of place against the gray Seattle sky.

A security guard in a neat beige uniform leaned over and tapped on the window next to Carla. She powered it down and handed the woman her press card. “I have an appointment to do an interview with Mrs. Samji, in unit number five.”

The guard slid the card through a hand-held scanner, then stepped inside her booth. She would be calling Mrs. Samji, confirming the appointment. Carla waited, hoping that Frances had done her job. If all went well the guard’s call would be subtly re-routed to the station’s telecom unit, where a sampled image of Mrs. Samji-copied from the telecom call she’d just answered, and hastily remixed-would give permission for Carla to be admitted. It was a classic reporter’s trick, highly effective, albeit illegal. And it worked. The guard stepped out of the booth, handed Carla her press card, and waved the taxi inside the wall.

As the taxi pulled up in front of the Samji residence, Carla inserted her KKRU expense-account credstick into a scanner and keyed in a tip. Payment accepted, the driver unlocked the doors. Carla asked him to pull into a nearby visitor parking stall and wait for her. If the Mitsuhama goons showed up, she wanted a safe haven close at hand. She realized that the interview with Mrs. Samji might take some time. But with the overtime Carla was putting into this story, the station could bloody well pay to keep the meter running.

Carla stepped out of the taxi, smoothed her skirt, and climbed the three steps to the front door. A message board in the door scrolled a greeting and warning in one: “Welcome to the Samji residence. These premises protected by a watcher spirit.”

Despite the rustic Western took of the condo the door was solid enough, made of heavy wood that had been carved with ornate designs. Carla suspected that these were magical wards capable of blocking unwanted astral intruders. There was no maglock; just a thumbprint scanner, set into the middle of the door. It would be an easy security system to fool, but the high walls and guarded gate of the complex provided most of the protection. For visitors, there was a com unit set into the faux adobe brickwork beside the door.

As Carla touched the pad, a woman’s voice issued from a hidden speaker. “Who is calling, please?” The screen inside the unit remained blank.

The response had been too swift to be anything other than an automated answering program. But Carla activated the camera in her cybereye and made sure her audio pickup was working, just in case Mrs. Samji activated the com screen. As soon as Carla identified herself as a reporter, anything she recorded was fair game, and could be aired on the news.

“It’s Carla Harris of KKRU Trideo News,” she answered.

“I have no wish to talk to reporters.” This time, the voice sounded live.

“It will only take a moment or two, Mrs. Samji.”

“I have answered enough questions already,” the voice continued. “Of course I recognized my husband’s body, even though it was badly burned. I had to identify him for the officers, it was a terrible experience. I wish… Please leave me alone. You reporters ask such horrible questions.” The woman sounded close to tears.

Carla frowned. Had Mrs. Samji already spoken to other reporters? As far as Carla knew, the other news-nets hadn’t bothered to pursue the item. They were playing it as a straightforward crime story in a city where muggers used magic as often as they used muscle. As far as they were concerned, Farazad Samji was just another wealthy corporate exec who had wound upon the wrong end of an unusual form of fireball in a violent robbery attempt. Hardly a lead story, considering the nightly body count. But maybe someone was having a slow news day, and had decided to try for a reaction piece from the family. Worse luck, they’d slotted Mrs. Samji off. She wasn’t likely to want to talk to anyone now. But if Carla could just get her to open the door, maybe she could fire off a question or two and get a reaction shot before the door was slammed in her face.

“I’m not here to ask ghoulish questions, Mrs. Samji,” Carla said quickly. Searching for inspiration, she remembered the information she’d gleaned from the encyclopedia. “1 work the religion beat. I understand that Mr. Samji was an important member of his temple. I want to do a profile on him… a simple obituary. I think the story could help to increase awareness of the Zoroastrian faith. I’m sure your husband would have liked to see an increase in membership in the temple, and this story just might-”

The screen beside the com pad flickered to life, framing Ravinder Samji’s head and shoulders. Carla quickly focused her cybereye on the image.

Mrs. Samji proved to be a small woman with long black hair that was twisted up into a bun at the back of her neck. She wore a mauve jumpsuit that looked as if it were made out of raw silk, and gold earrings that glittered against her dark skin. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, as if she’d been crying. There were dark circles under them that she hadn’t bothered to hide with makeup. Although she met Carla’s gaze, she kept glancing down.

“Farazad would have liked a story on the temple,” Mrs. Samji said softly. She gnawed at her lip with white teeth. “I do not have to talk about my husbands death?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Carla answered. She kept her fingers crossed, hoping the corn unit didn’t have a lie detection spell built into it. At the home of a mage, anything was possible.

Mrs. Samji looked down at something off-screen again, hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”

Locks clicked and the door swung open.

Mrs. Samji stood just inside the door. Carla glanced down to see what she had been looking at. It turned out to be a hazy, doglike shape-a magical spirit of some sort. As the creature trotted out from behind the door, Carla could see that it had only partially manifested on the physical plane. It had a translucent, ghostly body about the size of a terrier, with a head like a Chinese lion.

“This must be the watcher that your message board warned me about,” Carla said. “Is it one of your husband’s magical creations?”

“A watcher?” Mrs. Samji shifted uneasily. “Yes, I suppose it is. But it’s one of Miyuki’s creatures, not Farazad’s. She left it here for me yesterday, as… protection for the children and myself. She said that people might try to take advantage of a woman whose husband had recently died. It’s much more powerful than our usual-”

“That was kind of Miyuki,” Carla said, smiling. “She must be a good friend.”

A peculiar look crossed Mrs. Samji’s face. “Yes. A good friend. Of my husband.” The comment seemed to be directed as much at the lion-headed dog as it was at Carla.

Carla filed that away for future use. Clearly Mrs. Samji didn’t like this Miyuki-whoever she was. Yet she’d accepted a magical creature from her that made her nervous. Interesting.

“May I come in?” Carla asked. She braced a foot against the floor, in case Mrs. Samji changed her mind about the interview and tried to shut it suddenly.

“I suppose that would be possible,” Mrs. Samji answered, glancing down again at the creature.

The lion-headed dog backed up, but kept Carla under its scrutiny. She thought she could see tiny drops of mist dripping from its bared fangs, but that might have just been her imagination. The creature, despite its small size, projected a palpable aura of menace.