Four of the chairs surrounded me, poised to hurl themselves at my body. I waited until the first of them sprang at me, and I dove onto the table, which was also making its way toward me. I landed on my shoulder, thankful the table could support me. The four chairs collided with one another and became a hopeless mess of legs. I rolled over the edge of the table, landing on the two other chairs, which seemed to collapse under me, smashing apart and leaving me stunned on the floor. Unfortunately, that gave the table enough time to throw itself down on top of me, crushing me under its weight.
The Inspectre whistled, and, with some reluctance, the table lifted itself off me.
“That, my boy, is why we F.O.G.gies are taught to think six steps ahead.”
The table meandered off toward the remaining tangle of chairs and started to help pull them apart like a mother dog sorting out her pups. The Inspectre walked over to me and offered his hand. I took it and let him help me back up as I dusted splinters of wood off my clothes.
“Sorry, sir,” I said. I felt my face turn red.
“Nonsense,” the Inspectre said, encouraging me with a clap on the back. “You’re getting there. I’m sure one of those shattered chair pieces could have been driven through my heart if you’d grabbed one. You were already thinking three or four steps ahead, which, for an initiate, is tremendous progress.”
“Thank you,” I said, humbled. I hadn’t felt like I was improving, but I suppose I had fared well enough, given my current mental state.
“ ’Course I suspect your lack of focus might have something to do with your trip down to the Gauntlet,” the Inspectre said, and I felt my face go flush again.
Busted.
“I owed Godfrey Candella some details for the archives,” I said, giving him a semitruth. “Just thought it would be a little more sociable to knock back a few.”
“I see,” he said, running one hand over his walruslike mustache.
“Speaking of Godfrey, sir, I was wondering . . . What’s his story? He called himself ‘normal’ today. He seems to be under the impression that he doesn’t have any power of any kind.”
“And why shouldn’t he be?” the Inspectre said, more defensive that I would have imagined. “None of the Gauntlet staff have any extraordinary abilities to speak of, other than a deep love of history.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat disappointed. “I just thought . . .”
I stopped myself. I was being ridiculous.
“You just thought what?” the Inspectre said. His voice softened. “My boy, more than any other division that interacts with the Department, you should know that the Fraternal Order supports independent thought over mere compliance with Departmental policies. The Order predates it by several hundred years. It may have provided the foundation of the governmental branch, but it serves more than just whatever the political flavor of the times is. It’s why we exist outside the mainstream. So, by all means, speak up. If you’ve got a theory, I’d like to hear it.”
I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts before speaking. Talking to the Inspectre always made me feel like I was twelve.
“Well, Godfrey and I got to talking, and he told me a little bit about his past—how he had been let go only days before the company he worked for was destroyed, that he was the lone survivor of the incident, how he first received an offer to join the Department . . .”
The Inspectre nodded. “And you wondered how the Department came to recruit him.”
It was my turn to nod. “I mean, I lucked into finding out about the Department in the back of the newspaper, and even then it was hidden in a cryptic ad. You must have seen something special in Godfrey to have extended an invitation directly to him.”
I felt a little nervous putting the Inspectre on the spot like this, but I couldn’t help it. I had to go with my hunch.
When I stopped, the Inspectre smiled.
“I knew I was right to choose you for the Fraternal Order,” he said, beaming.
The Inspectre turned to the table and chairs and whistled. The four surviving chairs had just finished untangling themselves from one another and trotted over to the table. The Inspectre gestured for me to sit. He looked serious, even in his Dracula cape.
“What I’m about to tell you is strictly the business of the Fraternal Order of Goodness. That means no telling Connor, or Jane, and especially not Godfrey Candella. If he finds out that shortly after his escape from certain death, at least ten pairs of eyes started watching him almost every waking moment of his life, he would have certainly considered his existence to be less than mundane. Do you understand?”
I nodded yes. I was eager to find out anything I could, whether it confirmed my suspicion or not.
“Good,” the Inspectre said. He leaned in, even though there was no one else in the expansive room, and lowered his voice. “Godfrey Candella is unknowingly one of the prime archival tools of the Department of Extraordinary Affairs because he seems to possess some innate ability.”
“I knew it,” I said, pounding the table. One of the table legs kicked me. “Sorry.”
“Godfrey caused a spike in the radar of the Gauntlet when its professional newsreaders picked up the story about the freak building explosion. The idea that there had been only one survivor lucky enough to have escaped that tragic fate sent up red flags. It was enough for us to dispense a small Shadower team to investigate Godfrey Candella further.
“The initial reports on Godfrey showed an abnormal amount of coincidental and luck-based activity surrounding the man. However it works, he certainly has a knack for being in the right place at the right time, or avoiding the wrong place at the right time, as the case may be. It’s not that he has a nose for trouble so much; it’s that he seems to be fairly lucky. A walking deus ex machina, if you will. We think that’s why he’s often first on the scene when something happens, which is an invaluable tool for an archivist. However, the kicker is that it appears that he has absolutely no idea that it is happening around him. None at all.”
“So why not tell him? Let him hone it the way I’m learning to hone my own ability.”
The Inspectre shook his head. “You don’t understand. You’ve always been aware of your powers, even when you couldn’t control them. Many of the other people in the Department simply aren’t wired that way. Everything that’s happened to Godfrey Candella was because of innate ability, which means that if he ever becomes aware of it, it might disappear altogether. We can’t risk that, and there’s no foreseeable harm in him not knowing.”
No wonder Godfrey always seemed to be there in a timely fashion. That explained his appearance at the docks the other day. He was the perfect historian, always on the scene to record events as they happened. But the way the Department kept him in the dark about this power irked me to no end.
“So he doesn’t suspect anything?”
“Nothing,” he said. “The files on him aren’t even on record down in the Gauntlet for fear he might come across a mention of himself. His unusual case even caught the eye of the Enchancellors. It was decided from the top down, Simon, that in order to keep his potential within the Department viable, Godfrey Candella must never be made aware of what he truly is.”
I sat there in quiet after the Inspectre finished. I didn’t know exactly what to say. Godfrey was definitely a boon to the Department. Having information in our line of work was crucial, and having someone who could be on the scene to record it was a definite advantage. Didn’t he have the right to know, though? With a power like that, it sucked that Godfrey Candella remained in the dark.
It also sucked that I was going to use him without his knowledge, but I had to do something to keep more people from dying at the hands of the chupacabra.