Arachna

Chapter 8: Do We Have a Deal?

Eric was light on his feet as he strode down the hallway, his cane clacking against the floor.

When he'd entered the building, he'd stifled a laugh at the security. Only one guard had been sitting in a chair near the entrance, and he'd been more interested in the newspaper he held than his surroundings. Malcolm's name was in the headline.

Few people had been in the lobby. Eric had sauntered up to the receptionist, his cane tapping on the white marble floor, and claimed he was there for a meeting. When the man said the meeting was already taking place, Eric had slipped him a wad of cash along with the promise that he was fashionably late. The man had taken the money and told him where to go.

Eric had passed another guard on his way to the elevators and unclipped the keys from his belt. Eric likely wouldn't need them, but he saw no harm in taking them—not to Eric, at least. He wished he could see the look on the guard's face whenever he found out his keys were missing.

Even now, he chuckled at the thought.

Eric's black trench coat didn't scream businessman, but with the cloudy weather outside, he was certain nobody would ask questions. He'd wormed his way through the building, planting little surprises throughout should anything go wrong with his plan. Rain would come soon, and as if on cue, a low rumble of thunder threatened the city of Agni.

A terrible last resort, but an assemblage of sticks in suits weren't going to say no to him—not if enough money and information was offered. He patted the case attached to the inside of his coat.

Eric gulped, a shock of nerves jolting him. He stopped in his tracks. It had been too long since he felt nervous about anything. The feeling was foreign to him now. His plan had to work. It had to. He could finally make up for what he'd done. He drowned his nerves as he'd learned to do years ago and continued on.

Bleached lights shone on the wooden door at the very end of the hallway. Muffled voices resonated from the other side, and as much as Eric tried to decipher them, he couldn't make out what they were discussing. With the death of the two founders, however, he had a fair guess.

Eric cleared his throat, raised his fist, and tapped on the door. The voices stopped, and a middle-aged man opened the door, glowering at him.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, his voice coated in tired frustration.

"Oh, no," Eric said, his face twisting in a smile as he waved the question away. "However, I do believe I can help you."

The older man responded by closing the door—or trying to.

Eric stopped the door with his foot. The older man stared down at Eric's boot then met his eyes.

Eric ignored the twinge of irritation that prickled his skin. His hand found a splinter as he shoved the door open, pushing the aging man to the ground with more force than he'd intended.

"Ow," Eric said, plucking the splinter from his palm. When he surveyed the shocked faces of the aging men, he suppressed a laugh and let out a half-hearted apology. "I suppose I don't know my own strength." His laugh spilled out, and he stepped into the room. His skin crawled as he helped the man up and gave him a hard pat on the back. He made sure the older man met his eyes, and when his face turned a shade paler, Eric knew his message had come across.

Every head turned toward him. One man at the end of the oval conference table appeared younger than the rest, though the wrinkles under his eyes and the grays of his hair were distinct, even from where Eric stood. His eyes flashed with anger, but his smile said otherwise, as if he thought this was some elaborate office prank.