His Dark Materials |≈Ω≈|Desire And Daemons|≈Ω≈|

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Murder

The morning air was fresh and cool. Samantha breathed it in before taking a sip of her expresso and placing it back down on the small table beside her. She was sitting on the balcony of one of her favourite breakfast roosts that overlooked the sea where all the fishing boats were coming in to the harbour.

Below cars were running along the roads and the side walks were full of people, rushing to work. But Sam was in no rush, she had had time to enjoy her morning before she got started with her interview. Her first source was late, but she'd decided to wait a little longer.

"Can I get you another expresso?" A waiter asked her, his snake-daemon slithering around his neck. What an unusual daemon for a waiter.

She looked up, pushing her sunglasses down slightly so she could see him probably. Her gaze stared straight into his, a habit she had picked up in her years of being a journalist for the London newspaper. In her line of work, eye contact was of the utmost importance. The eyes were the windows into the soul after all.

"Yes please." She hummed, glancing only one over the balcony railing. Below she could see the figure of her interviewee pushing through the crowd. "Would you also mind getting me a coffee, black please."

"Yes miss." He nodded and then trotted off, his tray tucked under his arm.

Samantha returned to people watching. There was a couple below having an argument where they thought they couldn't be seen. From the man's nervous body language Sam could tell that he was the one in trouble and that the woman had caught him in the act of something.

The writer inside her tossed and turned, but she forced herself to remain seated. One story at a time.

"He's late." Samantha turned her head to her curlew-daemon resting on the railing. She took off her sunglasses and rested them beside her empty cup.

"I'd noticed. But don't worry, he'll be bursting through the door in three... two... one-"

The door to the café flew open and rather pudgy man waddled through, panting from climbing the stairs as the elevator was being repaired. He was round around the hips, causing his suspenders to look on the verge of snapping. His hair was rough combed to one side and was slick with sweat.

"Mr Ferguson." I waved to him and watched as he squeezed between the tables and plonked down in the seat beside me. "So glad you could make it." I said, expertly hiding my irritation. If there was one thing I hated, it was when my valuable writing time was wasted.

"Sorry I'm late." He puffed, his chubby beaver-daemon collapsing under the shade of his seat. Mr Ferguson's eyes were flicked left and right and he was very noticeably looking over his shoulder every five minutes. "I had to make sure I wasn't being followed."

Those nine words recaptured my interest and my hand instinct lay reached for the pen resting on the tiny notebook I had set up on the table. "I must say," he flushed red at the cheeks when finally took the time to look at me properly, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you Ms. Akehurst. I have read many of your stories in the Daily News. Your article on the daemon cult in Texas was outstanding and well written."

She smiled out of curtesy but began to tap her pen firmly against the paper. "Yes, thank you. So you wanted to tell me something, about the child disappearances all over the city." She reminded him, not interested in his flattery.

"Yes," he wiped his palms on his pants, and begun flick his head over his shoulders again, breathing heavily. "Are you sure it is safe here?"

"Yes I am quite sure." She responded, still tapping her pen. Of course, there was no way for the writer to be completely sure, but calming the interviewee was one of the first steps to a successful and informative interview.