This was the perfect time to sneak in. The chap in the kiosk was focused on the queue of cars, checking badges and exchanging pleasantries with a few. I waited until he was leaning fully out the window and then I simply crossed through on the other side of the little booth, right behind his back.

The trick is to power-walk, not sneak. I marched through the throng like a Very Important Person who was late for a Very Important Meeting, and for the most part people stepped out of my way or paid me no mind at all.

The majority of these commuters were heading into the large glass-fronted building that was clearly their main office block. A few bodies separated from the pack, heading toward the more featureless buildings that surrounded it. I made a beeline for the first building, which had Baines and Grayle audaciously emblazoned above the doors – and which seemed to require an employee card to open.

Est. 1976, the sign also declared. Was that how long they'd been in business?

I swerved around a group ahead of me to catch the glass door before it closed behind someone. Pretending to just notice the crowd, I held it open graciously for the next knot of people and then slipped inside myself.

The reception area seemed designed especially to intimidate small-timers like me. Every surface was a polished one, from the marbled floor to the shining white walls and the obnoxious mirror sculpture that took up one end of the very empty space. Only a slim desk and two low seats – all matte black and with hard angles in them – made up the rest of the furniture. Employees filed into an array of lifts, and the opening and closing of their shiny doors reflected eerily in the metal sculpture.

I pretended to admire this while the lobby emptied of people. The artwork, if you'd call it that, was made up of separate but interconnecting strips of mirror in a nonsense formation. It was strangely at odds with the precise corners of everything else in the room, that this mess of a shape was allowed to take up so much space. I was about to leave it when, from the corner of my eye, the shape changed, moulded by perspective into an Egyptian wedjat eye.

My head snapped back to stare at it, but the impression was gone. I circled the thing a few times and let myself lose focus on it. More symbols emerged on my periphery. Two crossed spears. A pentacle. A triquetra. The solar cross. All of them resulting in a mishmash of what I knew to be protective symbols – because I had placed all of them, at one time or another, on Cora.

'Can I help you?'

The voice made me jump, despite its polite tone. It belonged to a young lady in a slick trouser suit, who I'd seen behind the reception desk.

'Ah, I was just admiring your . . . art piece.'

'Fascinating, isn't it?' She bade me to step backward, into a specific corner of the room. 'Look now. Do you see it?'

I rocked my head until the twisted mirror ribbons formed into something new. 'It looks like . . . a snake curled around a rod?'

She nodded happily. 'It's called the Rod of Asclepius. He was the Greek god of medicine. Perfectly fitting, don't you think?'

'Ye-es.' Quick, time to take control of the conversation before she asks me what I'm doing here. I stuck out my hand. 'Jack Hansard. I have an appointment. With the–' I bit my tongue before saying boss, '–sales team. I didn't catch a name, though. I'm pitching a presentation today. Can you show me where to set up? I'll need a projector.' I flashed my business card, thumb carefully placed to cover up the 'Occult' in Purveyor of Occult Goods.

She blinked a few times, clearly caught off guard. 'A projector? I don't think we– Hang on, I'll check the diary.'

'I was told I'd be provided with a projector,' I said patiently. The key here is to be insistent, but very polite. Put them on the back foot, and keep them there. 'No trouble if you can't, but I'll need a little extra time to arrange everything. Can you possibly delay everyone by ten minutes? I appreciate you're on a tight schedule.'

'Everyone?' she murmured, desperately scanning her computer screen.

'I know how important this is to the company, and I certainly don't want to waste anyone's time.'

'I don't see it on the system. Do you know what room you're supposed to be in?'

'I'm afraid I don't,' I said apologetically. 'I was just told to turn up and it would all be ready for me.'

'Ah-hm. No one's mentioned anything to me . . .' She was visibly starting to get a little stressed. Time for the pièce de résistance.

I leaned casually onto the desk and put on my most gracious tone. 'I'm so sorry. This isn't your fault. Look, I do know my way around. I know John; he'll be able to put me right.' There's always a John.

She sagged with relief. 'I'll call him.'

'No need!' I said, almost too hastily. 'He's a friend. I've been to his office before. I wouldn't want to trouble you any further. Thank you so much.'

I gave a generous smile and strode confidently to one of the lifts. I nearly got away with it. Just as the shiny doors slithered open, I saw her pick up the phone.

'Hi, John . . . ?'

The doors closed on the picture of her worried face.

Drat.

But it didn't spell disaster just yet. I could count on a few minutes of confusion as they puzzled over the details ('Did he mean this John? Is there another John? Someone get John from Accounting. Does anyone know about this presentation?') and even once they'd worked it out, they had no idea which floor I was heading to.

As for me? I was going straight to the top.

Perhaps it's more a Hollywood movie trope, but I certainly felt that the architects behind Baines & Grayle, the criminal masterminds who had terrified half the supernatural underworld, the kind of people who fancied themselves the boss of demons and demi-gods, would definitely put their most senior offices on the top floor.

I was gratified, in a bleak sort of way, when I stepped off the lift to see a sign pointing to the Senior Executive Committee Boardroom. The halls on the top floor weren't opulent, like I had for some reason expected. They carried the same sleek but sensible atmosphere as the ground floor, with no frivolous trimmings to suggest the top-dogs lived better than the working mongrels. Even the plaque on the Boardroom door was a simple black plastic. Part of me wanted it to be clad in ornate brass and oak; somehow more fitting for a mysterious and malevolent corporation.

But I could sense the evil spilling out from behind those doors. It would have to be something evil, truly vile, truly powerful, to have been behind all of this. To have struck fear into the hearts of hardened Black Marketeers, to have covered their tracks so scrupulously, and to be able to employ the likes of Quiet Eyes as their mercenaries.

I inhaled and counted the shakes out of my hands.

I couldn't let myself be deterred by thoughts of what be-tentacled Lovecraftian horror must be waiting for me. I knew, in opening those doors, I might never come back out again. But if Ang was trapped here, I had to try to help her. I had to do at least one thing that meant something, to somebody.

I gripped with both hands and swung the doors wide open.

Six faces turned to stare at me, frozen in varying degrees of surprise. They all looked – at least on the surface – human.

'Can we help you?' said the woman at the head of the table, over a pair of slim spectacles.

'Is it the tea and biscuits?' said one of her colleagues, who was clearly slower to catch on.

I don't know why my breathing became suddenly ragged. 'I'm here for answers,' I declared, heart thumping in my chest. 'And I'm not leaving until I get them!'

'I recommend contacting your line manager,' one said helpfully. 'We're in a meeting, right now. There are systems in place for this sort of thing.'

The first lady interjected, 'But the wellbeing of our employees is one of our highest priorities, and if you feel you need to speak to one of us you can certainly arrange an appointment.'

'What?' I felt the world shifting out of my grasp. I strove to re-find my footing – I had only one purpose here. 'Tell me where the coblynau are! And the knockers! What have you done with them?'

A quick exchange of glances around the table. Their collective puzzlement only seemed to deepen.

'Are you new here?' I was asked.

'This should have been covered in orientation.'

The lady with the glasses pressed a button on the table phone line. 'Kevin? Could you send up someone from HR, please?'

'What's your role?' said the closest chap, in a friendly manner. 'In the company, I mean. We'll get you sorted, don't fret.'

'I'm not– I don't work here, you stupid pricks!'

A couple of them gasped, but more in reaction to the tame insult, I suspected.

'You're the people who run Baines and Grayle?' I shouted.

They blinked owlishly at me, like children. And they were all young, I realised. No old, balding white men here; no greying women hardened and bitter from years of fighting their way to the top. All fresh-faced, young and beautiful, as sleek as their smartphones and not a hair out of place in their carefully manicured ensembles.

I threw my hands into the air. 'Why? What's all this for? Who the hell even are you, coming into my world and trashing things like you have a right to be there? How the hell do you have offices? You're doing business in broad daylight? This is madness! Do you even know what you're doing?'

The first woman delicately cleared her throat and pressed the button again. 'Security . . .'

I ran and snatched it off the table, ripping the plug from its socket. They were all on edge now. Perhaps they'd only just realised that a lunatic was in their midst.

A man who looked no older than twenty stood up and raised his hands. 'Okay now. Let's calm down. I'm sure we can help you . . .'

'Tell me where the coblynau are. And Ang. Where's Ang?'

'I don't know who that is–'

'She's a coblyn,' I spat, 'like the ones you kidnapped. Quiet Eyes told me you did! Did you know she double-crossed you?' I rounded on a couple that were whispering frantically. 'What have you got to say for yourselves?'

They squeaked into silence.

'I've had enough of this.' The woman at the head of the table also stood, and made for an imposing figurehead. 'For the record, you could likely answer most of your questions by looking up our public business information. We know exactly what we are doing, thank you, and are doing so quite successfully.'

I glowered at her. 'Are you Baines or Grayle?'

She simply sighed, as though she'd had to explain this many times before. 'Those are just archaic words, sir. For bones and grail. We grind the bones . . . and produce the grail.' She nodded – too late, I realised – to someone over my shoulder. 'Get rid of him, please. He's with the other protesters, I expect.'

'Right you are, ma'am. I'll– fuck.' He locked eyes with me.

'You,' we said in unison.

* * *

Author's Note

How are we feeling about this reveal and confrontation, chaps? What elements could be stronger?

From my end, I'm bugged by the anonymity of the head honchos Hansard chats with in the Board Room. I can't decide whether it's a good or bad thing that they are almost faceless, and certainly nameless entities as far as this narration goes. What do you think?