Chapter Text
The wizard isn’t at all what John expected. He’s slight, with a beakish nose, pale eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, and receding hair that stands up straight like it’s surprised. In his brown three-piece suit, he looks like a teacher at an old-fashioned boys’ school. But it isn’t his nebbishy appearance that throws John—it’s his expression. Most summoners greet him with a leer or a blush; this man looks, well, baffled. His eyes skitter up and down John’s naked frame like they’re afraid to land on something alarming, and his mouth opens and closes without making a sound.
There’s a power cord lying in a circle around John’s feet. It’s hooked up to a computer, and he can feel the spell humming through it. He sneakily prods at the barrier with his magic, but it holds firm. Cocking his head at the wizard, he lets a hint of a smile play on his lips. “How about you let me out of here so we can both have some fun?” he drawls.
The small man gapes at him, eyes widening. “You— You’re an incubus!”
John’s eyebrows lift. He didn’t really expect his opening gambit to work, but this is not the reaction he’s used to. “Yes?”
The man darts to a computer and begins clicking away at the keyboard, his face bunched into a frown. Spell code scrolls rapidly down the screen, too complex for John to make sense of. After a moment, the wizard turns his frown on John, swivelling his torso as he looks at him and then back at the screen. “There appears,” he says, “to have been a slight miscalculation.” His voice implies the very idea offends him.
John has seen “oops did I summon a sex demon?” posturing before, but this man’s reaction seems real. He shifts his weight inside the circle, reconsidering his approach. The room in which he’s materialized is cavernous and dimly lit, with rows of bookshelves. It looks like a library, but there are no signs of recent use. A collection of computers spreads across several desks, an island of technology in a sea of books. It’s surrounded by several rolling boards almost completely papered over with photos, clippings, and printouts. The computer fans hum and the sharp smell of magic hangs in the air.
The wizard rises from his computer and limps back to the circle. “I am sorry,” he says, lifting his chin to look John in the eye, “but this spell was intended for another sort of person entirely.”
Person, John notes, not demon. A liberal, then. Probably voted for Obama. Is he still president? John needs to find a calendar. Feeling his way to a strategy, he says, “I’m pretty versatile. Just tell me what you’re looking for.”
The man shakes his head, a sharp, stiff-necked movement. An injury, John guesses—one suffered later in life, judging by the awkwardness of the movement. “It’s a very dangerous job,” says Three-Piece Suit. “I couldn’t possibly subject anyone to it who wasn’t fully prepared for the sort of danger it entails. I do apologize for bringing you all this way in error—”
“Please,” says John softly (he’s chosen his angle). “Give me a chance. Just a week, a day. Don’t send me back. You don’t know what it’s like.”
The man quirks an eyebrow. “Pitchforks and lakes of fire?” he asks dryly.
So the guy’s done his research. Without missing a beat, John says, “Worse—boredom.”
It’s true. He’d gladly take the sharp pains of this world over the numbness of the other. He lets his feelings show in his face, and the wizard seems to soften in spite of himself, as John guessed he would. “I’ve done dangerous work before,” John says. “I know how to handle myself.” As a clincher, he adds, “Just a trial. You can always send me back if it doesn’t work.”
Three-Piece Suit frowns, but John can tell he’s weakening. “What’s your name?” he asks.
John raises his eyebrows. Does the guy really think he’s that easy?
The wizard makes an impatient noise. “Not your real one, of course. I mean what should I call you?”
“John Reese.” It’s what he used during his last stint on this side, and as good a name as any.
“You may call me Mr. Finch.” Resuming his place at the keyboard, he says, “I’ll need to make a few modifications to my contract, given the…unforeseen circumstances.” He purses his lips at John. “I’m still not convinced this is a good idea.”
Sooner than John expects, the wizard rises from his seat and holds out a mobile device, his fingers just skirting the invisible barrier of the confinement spell. John takes the phone with an ironic nod and scrolls through the document on the screen.
It’s a standard contract, tightly written, with no loopholes John can see—more evidence this Mr. Finch knows what he’s doing. John scrolls through the legalese: …the Summoned is not to kill a human unless said human threatens the life of an innocent party or attempts to inflict grievous bodily harm or unbearable pain upon the Summoned… The “unbearable pain” part is interesting, but not really useful; demons can bear a lot of pain. Surprisingly, there’s no clause ensuring automatic obedience to the Summoner, which might give him some wiggle room. Was Finch careless there or just overly idealistic? John’s betting on the latter. The contract’s duration is unlimited—which means, practically speaking, until John is sent back to the other side—but it can be ended by the Summoner at any time. All standard stuff.
It isn’t what he hoped for, but he’ll figure something out; no contract is perfect. He scrapes a thumb against one of his sharp incisors until the skin splits, and presses a bloody print onto the phone’s screen. It gleams on the surface for a moment, then sinks into the display. There’s a beep as his agreement registers, and he feels a momentary pressure everywhere across his skin as the contract takes hold. A second later it’s gone, but he has no doubt he’ll feel it right away if he comes anywhere close to breaking the terms.
He tosses the phone back to Finch, who catches it clumsily. After glancing at its screen, the wizard types a few strokes into his keyboard and the confinement spell releases. John feels the change in the air as the circle goes back to being an ordinary power cord. He steps over it, the linoleum floor cold under his feet.
“I acquired some clothes for you,” Finch says, bustling around his makeshift office. “I had no idea what size to buy, so the fit will probably leave something to be desired, but they should do as a temporary measure.” He holds out a folded navy tracksuit and a pair of flip-flops, which John takes with an automatic “Thanks.” He lets his hand glance against Finch’s fingers; at the same time, his power uncoils and sends out a quiet tendril, seeking something to latch onto.
A solid wall of magic immediately slams down between them. Finch arches his eyebrows as though to say Really?
“Sorry,” says John lightly. “Force of habit.”
The other man eyes him, lips pursed. “Yes, well, do please try to restrain yourself in future.”
John gives him his meekest look. Finch is clearly more powerful than his run-of-the-mill aura implies. It’ll be fun finding his weak spot and wrapping him around John’s finger.
The track suit is not a good look. John’s wrists and ankles stick out about six inches, and the jacket strains across his shoulders. His toes curl over the front of the flip-flops. “Not sure even I can make this work, Finch,” he says.
The wizard winces away from his sartorial inelegance. “As I said, it’s just a stopgap. Here, use this to buy yourself a suitable wardrobe.” He holds out a credit card. The name stamped on it is Harold Finch. Harold, John thinks. It seems fitting.
“If anyone asks,” Finch continues, “I would suggest saying there was a fire in your building and all your belongings were smoke-damaged. Alternatively, you could blame a vindictive ex-girlfriend. I’ll leave the choice up to you.”
“Thank you, Harold,” he says blandly. Holding up the card between two fingers, he asks, “What’s the credit limit?”
“Ample,” says Finch, and turns back to his computers.
Several hours later, John returns with an armload of shopping bags and two coffees. Finch glances up from his computer when he walks in, and for a second John tastes his arousal on the air: a mix of honey and ginger with a hint of lemon. John took the time—and money, since Finch seemed so blasé about it—to get a fresh shave and a haircut while his suits were being adjusted, knowing his appearance is one of the strongest weapons in his arsenal. He’s glad to see the effect isn’t lost on the wizard.
John sets a coffee on the desk, leaning slightly closer than is strictly necessary, but Finch seems more concerned with moving the cup a safe distance from the keyboard. John gives a mental shrug and dumps his shopping on a chair.
“No tie?” asks Finch, slanting a look up at him through his glasses. Again, honeyed ginger blooms across John’s tongue.
“I don’t like things around my neck,” he says shortly. The fabric of his expensive shirt is soft, but it still feels startling against his skin. Embodiment takes a while to get used to. It’s strange to think how normal it became last time, by the end. He’d had other things to worry about.
“I’ve finished constructing your identity,” says Finch, picking up a wallet from the desk. The wallet is black and supple and smells of new leather. Inside is a New York driver’s license with his picture in the name of John Rollins, an ID card from a company called Eagle Security, several credit cards, a public library card, a Metrocard, and a half-filled punch card from a frozen yogurt chain. John entertains himself momentarily trying to imagine his summoner buying half-a-dozen frozen yogurts. “That was quick,” he says.
Finch arches an eyebrow. “I’m very good at what I do, Mr. Reese.”
“It won’t fool everyone. What about people who can see what I am? They’ll be looking for a demon registration number.”
“I’ve taken care of that,” says Finch, rolling his chair to another desk. Picking up a pair of tweezers, he extracts a tiny computer chip from its protective case and holds it up to show John. “This will project a registration number for anyone who looks at you with magically enhanced sight.”
John tries not to look as skeptical as he feels. “Those are hard to fake.”
“Oh, it’s perfectly real,” says Finch as he slots the chip into something that looks like a cross between a staple gun and a torture device. “You’re in the national database as H-642713-Q, a Level Three demon working security for an insurance firm. You’ve passed all the necessary background checks and have all the usual clearances.”
Finch must have somehow hacked the NSA database. John’s impressed. “Does that include a gun permit?”
Finch glances up, frowning. “Yes. Though I’d prefer if you didn’t use it.”
“Well, that all depends on what I’m up against. My demonic wiles work best at close range. They’re not so great in a firefight.”
Finch sighs. “Very well. I’ll leave it to your discretion.” He adjusts the staple gun and stands stiffly. “I’ll need to…chip you.”
“Right.” John bends his head forward, and cool air stirs the hairs on his neck. Footsteps shuffle unevenly behind him.
“I can’t reach—you’re too tall,” says Finch, sounding exasperated. “You’ll have to sit down.”
John sits in Finch’s computer chair, which is still warm. He cants his head forward, feeling the back of his collar pull away from his nape. A tentative touch—Finch’s fingers. A gust of breath as Finch leans over him. A hint of sweet ginger—evidently Finch has a thing for his neck. Good to know. The fingers pinch a fold of skin, not too hard. There’s a press of metal, a loud thunk, and a prick of pain.
“There,” exhales Finch, stepping back. John runs a hand across his nape. The chip’s so small he can barely feel it under his skin. He spins the chair around, ready to give Finch back his seat.
The wizard is standing there staring at him, eyes unfocused. It takes John a moment to realize he’s reading the false registration. Finch nods, satisfied, and says, “That will do nicely.”
Resisting the urge to touch his neck, John stands and picks up his coffee. When he takes a swig, the taste is almost overwhelming—he forgot how intense flavours can be. Finch’s cup is still sitting on his desk, untouched.
“So,” says John, settling himself into the room’s only couch, a scratchy brown thing that he’s willing to bet Finch has spent the night on more than once. “Now that I’m properly tagged, maybe it’s time you told me what exactly you want me to do.”
Finch pushes his chair slowly away from his keyboard. “Yes…” he says, staring at his hands, apparently choosing his words. At last he looks up and says, “I receive certain information—names.” He indicates the boards of photos and clippings with a tilt of his head. “Some of them require protection; some pose a danger to others. I need someone who is able to act in a physical capacity that is, alas, beyond me,” he says, gesturing at his injury with a wry twist to his mouth. “But discretion is essential. There are people who would not be pleased to discover my access to this information. Powerful people, who have proven themselves willing to protect their secrets by any means necessary.” He glances away, his face shuttering. Guilt, maybe?
John’s done worse jobs. Nobody summons a demon unless they want it to do their dirty work, one way or another. “Okay,” he says. “Who’s first?”
“Maria Jones.” Finch limps to an empty glass board and tapes up a photo of a woman in her mid-forties wearing a discount suit and a serious expression. “For the past twenty years she’s worked as an administrator with the transit authority. Divorced. Amicably, by all appearances. A daughter in high school with straight A’s. No debts to speak of. No enemies as far as I can tell. Not much to go on, I’m afraid.”
Leaning back into a scratchy cushion, John says, “Should be easy enough. Bump into her after work, go for coffee, let things move on from there. I can have a look around her apartment after she falls asleep.”
“You intend to seduce her?” Finch says, aghast.
“Of course,” says John with a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s the quickest way to get the intel, and then I’ll be on hand to save her or stop her, whichever it turns out to be.” He takes another sip of coffee and enjoys the bracing bitterness on his tongue.
“I don’t approve of coercing people, Mr. Reese, by magical means or otherwise,” says Finch sharply.
John raises an eyebrow. “Who said anything about magic?” He’s a little offended, to be honest, though he keeps his expression blank.
“Oh. I see.” Finch blinks. Then he shakes his head. “It would still be dishonest. No, Mr. Reese, I insist we find another way.”
“You’re the boss,” says John. “Surveillance it is.” If Finch wants to do it the hard way, so be it. “How will I get in touch with you?”
It turns out Finch has an earwig. He pulls it out of a plastic tube and it wriggles on the end of his tweezers. “Once it’s crawled into your ear, it will implant its payload into the cartilage—”
“I’m familiar with the model.” The government uses something similar for special ops. The insects are magically bred to implant a voice-resonance spell then die and drop harmlessly out of the ear. Did Finch steal military-grade tech or did he make it himself? John wonders as the wizard leans over him with his tweezers, bracing himself with a hand on John’s shoulder. Tiny feet tickle his ear, and a moment later he feels the slight buzz of a spell taking hold.
Either Finch has improved on the model or his spells are better than the government’s, because his voice comes through crisply, with no fuzz or distortion. He explains how to activate it, demonstrating with a narrow fingertip on his own pale, smooth-shaven jaw.
“How will you hear me?” asks John.
“I’ll always be able to hear you, Mr. Reese. I’ve made certain of that.”
“Always? What if I want some private time?” His tone is just bland enough to be suggestive.
Sadly, Finch doesn’t ruffle; John had been hoping for a voyeurism kink. “A running shower or faucet will generally provide a degree of interference, if that helps,” Finch says calmly. “But I’m afraid privacy is something you’ll have to earn.”
Leaning his elbow on the couch arm, John props his chin on his fist and looks up winsomely through his lashes. “Gee, Harold, it’s like you don’t trust me.”
“I’ve known you for all of five hours, Mr. Reese. And if you’ll forgive the generalization, your species of demon has a reputation for manipulating people,” says Finch primly, retreating to his computer chair.
John tries to hide a smile. He doesn’t try very hard. “How about if I promise I won’t try to seduce you?”
Finch arches an eyebrow at him. “Then I’ll assume you’re lying.”
To his own surprise, John laughs. It comes out a bit rusty, but it feels good. Finch turns back to his screens, mouth pursed, but John catches a glint in his eye that suggests there might be a sense of humour lurking somewhere under that three-piece suit.