May 06, 2004 15:46
The morning started off well enough, as most mornings have, of late. My current bf likes to be awakened in a certain way (or two) in the morning, neither of which I could ever say I mind in the least. However, as much as I would hate to lose such a cushy berth, I really do not appreciate playing agony aunt about his ex. I'm not even sure I was born when things went sour for them, and he's still going on about it?
On the other hand, I'm finally with someone I don't have to invent all sorts of lame excuses for, in order to explain my income, because I have no visible means of support. Since the Council rather conveniently blew up -- leaving me blissfully alone for the first time in my life -- I've made a tidy income playing travel agent and sometime match-maker for a number of London's more prosperous demons. I think one or two of my previous bfs have been terribly disappointed that I wasn't a drugs dealer, but what I really do isn't the sort of thing I'm anxoius to discuss with civiilians.
Council or no council, I still practice Iai on some of the more stupid local vampires -- and, honestly, just to blow off a little steam when I'm pissed off. I can't get nicked for killing someone who's already dead, can I? Not surprisingly, it's often my demon friends who alert me to new nests, because vampires and demons mix like oil and water. Vampires are the scum on top polluting everything else.
A trifle worrying (to me) is when the bf insists on acompanying me on a hunt. This is the odd side of living with someone who is aware of what I do. Watching out for his safety while I'mtrying to kill something is a deciided distraction. On the other hand, as a turn-on, it beats the hell out of dancing. The last time, we ended up going at it against the wall of some rubbish-strewn alley in Spitalfields, and he just seemed to melt every time I looked at him for a few days after.
I had a note in my accommodation post box (which I keep because I'm never quite certain where I might be sleeping next) that McDouglas and Froud finally ran across a copy of Blake's Daemonoological Compendium in an edition published prior to the accession of James I, when numerous controversial passages were expurgated from that and subsequent editions. Never mind I've already seen one, now -- in the library where I'm staying, no less -- I've always wanted my own copy. 32 K isn't much for a book this valuable -- the condition is listed as fair, but as long as all the print is legible I couldn't possibly care less about the cosmetic aspects of it.
There was some whey-faced, prissy looking girl behind the counter, instead of either of the proprietors. I usually dealt with Mr Froud, when I could. 'Excuse me,' I said, 'I'm in kind of a hurry --' which wasn't actually true, but it usually sped people up a bit, '-- I'm here to pick up a special acquisition item -- a 1572 copy of Blakes Daemonoligcal Compendium, listed as "fair" condition, agreed on price with Mr Froud was thrity-two thousand pounds, because of its condition. I have the draft from my bank with me. Name's Davis-Jones. Ieuan Davis-Jones.' I spelt out my given name, because I've yet to run across an ignorant English person of either gender who could spell it correctly without assistance.
'Is there a problem of some sort?' I asked, when mousy shop assistant just stood there, gawking at me. I know I'm attractive to women, even if they're not at all atractive to me, but really... (This was a particularly poor specimen - I'd wager I knew more about applying make-up than she did.) "Are either of the proprietors here? If you're just going to stare like a bloody idiot, perhaps one of them would be willing to assist me.'