Tastes Like Candy

Twenty-Five

 

Twenty-Five

Raven

"Albert Cross, unhand me."

"You think I'm falling for that one again?"

"Oh, I only scratched you a little."

"I looked like I got in a fight with a Siberian tiger."

"You're so dramatic."

"Says the goddamn model."

"Cassandra," Raven said, turning a pleading look to her little sister as they were marched down the block to Baskerville Hall. "A little help?"

Cassandra – a tiny ball of dark-haired, punk rock sunshine with an arm loaded with bracelets and a heavy fringe hanging over her eyes – huffed a laugh. "Yeah. Right. This is payback for you embarrassing me last week. Strong-arm her good, Albie."

"Traitor," Raven hissed.

"My pleasure," Albie said through his teeth, because she was taller than him, and being a serious pain about the whole process.

"You'll pay for this, Albie," Raven promised. "You won't know where, and you won't know when, but I can promise you it will be embarrassing, and you will fear my wrath afterward."

"I always fear your wrath," he said, and tugged open the door to the pub. "In you go."

He let go of her once they were inside, and she tugged the halves of her burgundy suede jacket together, brushing at the woodchips, or dust, or whatever he might have left on her sleeve. "Brute," she accused under her breath.

He gave her a mock-bow and an elaborate wave of his arm, inviting her to precede him. "M'lady."

"My arse." She kicked him in the shin as she passed him.

"I love it when you fight," Cassandra said, falling in behind Raven. "It's better than anything on the telly."

"This isn't a fight," Raven said. "No one's bleeding. Are they?"

Baskerville Hall wasn't at all her sort of place, but she could admit that it had a certain Conan Doyle-ish charm about it, with its dark, cramped corners, its padded leather, its English bones and blood.

Three Dogs were at the bar, and all turned to look at the commotion. All of their eyes jogged up and down her, from the toes of her pumps to the top of her carefully straightened hair.

"Wolf-whistle me and die," she said, and they all whipped back around.

"You have such a gentle way with men," Albie said behind her.

"Keep it up and see just how gentle."

"Not that stupid, love."

The second floor of Baskerville Hall was even more junkie detective-conducive: the faded silk wallpaper and heavy wainscoting. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet and the runner gave off an ancient, dusty smell.

Phillip was – where else? – behind his desk, the sun pouring in through the flanking windows in a way that obscured his face. By design, Raven knew. Anyone walking into his office would get an eyeful of the building across the way, the light, and not be able to get a read on the man at the desk.

Lucky for her, she was no stranger, and didn't really care what was brewing in the bastard's pale eyes.

"Phil," she greeted, crisply, head lifted, shoulders thrown back. She hadn't come here willingly, but she'd learned a long time ago the merits of entering a room as if she owned it. "Blowing up the city today?"