Kate Daniels 01 - Magic Bites

probably bounce off without so much as scorching the gray walls.
    I opened one half of the metal double doors and walked inside. A narrow passage stretched to the right of me, terminating at a door boasting a large red-on-white sign: Authorized Personnel Only. My other option was a flight of stairs leading upward.
    I took the stairs, noting they were surprisingly clean. Nobody tried to stop me. Nobody asked why I was there. Look at us, we are helpful and nonthreatening, we live to serve the community, and we even let anyone walk into our office.
    The need for an unassuming building I could understand, but public records claimed that the entire Chapter consisted of nine knights: a protector, a diviner, a questor, three defenders, and three guardians. Nine people, overseeing a city the size of Atlanta. Yeah.
    The stairs ended on a landing with a single metal door painted dull green. A small dagger gleamed weakly on its surface about my eye level. Knocking didn’t seem like a good idea, so I swung the door open and let myself in.
    A long hallway stretched before me, offering a variety of color to my tired eyes: gray and gray, and yet more gray. The ultra-short carpet boasted plain gray pile; the walls were painted in two shades of gray: lighter on top and a darker gray runner at the bottom. The small warts of electric lights on the ceiling looked gray, too. No doubt the decorator chose a particularly dull smoky glass out of esthetic considerations.
    The place looked spotless. Several doors branched from the hallway, probably leading into the individual offices. At the very end a large wooden door supported a kite shield enameled black. In the middle of the shield reared a steel lion, polished to a bright gleam. The knight-protector. Just the fellow I needed to see.
    I marched through the hallway, aiming for the shield and glancing into the doorways as I passed them. On my left I saw a small armory. A short, well-muscled man sat on a wooden bench polishing a dha. The wide blade of the short Vietnamese sword shimmered slightly as he drew an oiled cloth against its bluish metal. On the right lay a small but immaculate office. A large black man dressed in an expensive suit sat behind the desk, talking on the phone. He saw me, smiled with automatic courtesy, and kept talking.
    In his place I wouldn’t have given myself a second glance either. I wore my work clothes: jeans loose enough to let me kick a man taller than me in the throat, a green shirt, and comfortable running shoes. Slayer rested in its sheath on my back, partially hidden by my jacket. The saber’s hilt protruded above my right shoulder, obscured by my hair gathered into a thick plait. The braid was cumbersome—it slapped my back when I ran and made for an excellent hold in a fight. If I were a little less vain, I would’ve cut it off, but I’ve already sacrificed feminine clothes, makeup, and pretty underwear in the name of functionality. I would be damned if I gave up my hair, too.
    I reached the protector’s door and raised my hand to knock.
    “Just a moment, dear,” said the stern female voice I had heard through the phone yesterday.
    I glanced in its direction and saw a small office cluttered with file cabinets. A large desk sat in the middle of the floor and on top of the desk stood a middle-aged woman. The woman was tall, prim, and very thin, with a halo of curly hair dyed platinum-gray. She wore a stylish blue pantsuit. A matching pair of shoes rested near the leg of the chair she must have used to get on the table.
    “He’s with someone, dear,” the woman said. She raised her hands and proceeded to change the twisted bulb in a feylantern affixed to the ceiling next to an electric light. “You don’t have an appointment, do you?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Well, you’re in luck. He’s free for the morning. Why don’t you give me your name and the reason for your visit, and we’ll see what we can do.”
    I waited until she finished with the feybulb, told her that I was here in connection with Greg Feldman, and gave her my card. She took it down, showing no reaction at all, and pointed behind me. “There’s a waiting area over there, dear.”
    I turned and walked into the waiting area, which turned out to be just another office, equipped with a black leather sofa and two chairs. A table stood against the wall by the door with a coffeepot, guarded by two stacks of small clay cups. A large jar of sugar cubes stood next to the cups and