The Myth of Pest Control

R.L. Ostrander

The morning rain had given way to a light drizzle by mid-day, and the sidewalk was now plastered with the wet leaves of an early autumn. Bertrand normally liked this time of year, when the heat of summer began to give way to the cool touch of fall; when the winter frost was still little more than a glimmer in Hod's blind eye. But this year the rains had been unrelenting, and the winds that should have been a welcome relief were now damp fogs that seeped into his bones. Pulling his jacket closer to his body, he picked up his pace, determined to reach his destination before the weather grew worse.

Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the compass, it's battered brass case carrying a patina that reached back over three hundred years, when it was still in his father's possession. He flipped it open, watching as the needle swung wildly for a moment before pointing in the direction he was heading. He hated using the compass, it could only point in a straight line, which was of little use in the maze of streets that made up Brooklyn. But with his cell phone down to nine percent, he wasn't going to waste it on GPS.

It was nearly twenty minutes later when he arrived at the apartment building, a block of fairly high end units known as Coventry Square. The entrance was gated with a row of buttons matching the residences contained within. He scanned the names, his eyes stopping at Lowery – 404, a name that matched the one on the scrap of paper in his pocket. The work was a referral, he had never met with Ms. Lowery in person, and he had learned to never make a first impression over the phone. Especially when it came to the Unlettered, for whom only seeing was believing.

He took a moment, making sure his clothes were in order and his equipment was ready. His fingers jumped from item to item as he confirmed everything was where it should be. He pressed the appropriate button, and winced as shrill buzz filled the air. Drinking with the gnomes of Forest Park was never a good idea, and doing shots of Aquavit until sunrise was an outright terrible one. He should have started the day by brewing a Kveis Eir, a concoction that was literally "the hair of the dog that bit him"; but he had run out of hair a month ago and he had already been running late for this appointment.

"Yes, who is it?"

The voice would have been a pleasant one, if not for the harsh static that turned the voice in a mechanical rasp. Shouldn't there be something better than intercoms by now? Just because half the gear he carried predated the combustion engine didn't mean he liked it that way.

"Bertrand Severinsen. We have a three o' clock appointment."

"It's nearly four."

"Well, it seemed likely that if you had a problem for me to solve at three, you'd still have it now. But if it's resolved itself, I can- "

"No! I need this taken care of. Come right up."

There was a softer buzz, one that didn't set his nerves on edge, and the door clicked open. Tightening his grip on his bag, he took a deep breath and entered the building.

The interior was attractive but plain, and as he rode the elevator to the fourth floor, he could see nothing amiss. No lights flickering, no sudden stops between floors. By the time he reached apartment 404 he was beginning to wonder if his services were even needed.

He raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open before his fist could make contact. On the other side stood Ms. Lowery, an attractive woman who looked to be approaching the age where you stopped counting and just said twenty-nine. She had long brown hair that went down past her shoulders and a smoky eye that was probably just there to hide the fact that she hadn't been sleeping. Her outfit, consisting of an oversized sweater and yoga pants, gave him no sense of how high to set his prices. On the other hand, the aura of desperation that surrounded her screamed money.