that they wouldn’t crease. All designer, all lovely. The gray ceremonial gown I had seen him wear in the meeting was nowhere in sight.
How did an accountant on Aruba acquire this wardrobe, I wondered. There weren’t even many places to buy this kind of clothing on that island, at least so far as Margit would tell me. She always went to London or Paris to shop.
I went through the drawers incorporated into the closet, full of socks and shirts and sweaters. No magical implements, no robes, no books.
There had to be books somewhere, and a computer. Or something.
I went back to the room. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I opened the curtains slightly. Enough moon-light filtered through the glass that I could make out the desk, the piles of clothing we’d dropped on the floor, the telephone and the little hotel pad and pen on the bedside table.
Marten’s computer sat on the desk. I opened it and turned it on and cursed softly. I’d forgotten how much I hated Windows. I’d heard XP was better, but he was running 2000 and it was miserably slow.
First off, I knew I’d need some kind of cover prepared in case he woke up and found me with his computer, so I opened Explorer and brought up Zappos. If he asked I could always say that I couldn’t sleep and was just looking at shoes. In fact, I found Zappos.com high up in his history. Which answered part of how he found great shoes on his tiny island.
Then I opened another window and clicked on a familiar icon that looked like it should be MagicMirror. If he actually had credentials on the site that would explain a lot. And would demand a lot of other, more difficult explanations. I could understand him having some of the software. I knew that certain departments made software for the Initiated among the mortals, and it seemed that Marten ranked there. But if he could actually connect . . .
It was slow. I didn’t know if it was just searching aimlessly or if the machine was just slow. And then, haltingly, the familiar welcome page came up with the animated graphic fire motif. He was on.
I was going to have to ask for some answers on that one.
Unless—I wondered.
And then I was very lucky, because he’d stayed logged into his account, which meant that his access to MagicMirror was wide open to me. I had thought he was smarter than that. My respect for him took a nosedive, and then I reminded myself that he lived on Aruba, with a low crime rate and one demon. He probably didn’t think about passwording his private data—Aruba was a lot more secure than New York. At least I hoped it was a cultural difference and not an indication of unfathomable stupidity.
The window took me directly to his profile page, complete with picture. Meph was on his friends list, along with Marduk and Hatuman and a few other demons of my acquaintance. Margit wasn’t on his list—so at least he didn’t know about her. Or maybe he did and chose to make himself less visible to the local Hierarchy. I made a mental note of his user name.
He had found me, too, and had added me to his hot list to read, but not as a friend. Which meant that I wouldn’t know that he was reading my public postings.
How long had he read my journal? Suddenly I was paranoid. Had he been stalking me? Had he been reading for a while before we left the States? Or had he only found it after I’d left?
I went to read his journal, and since I was reading with his sign-in I had access to all of his locked and private posts. I went back to before I arrived on Aruba. I wanted to see if he’d been tracking me beforehand, and if he wrote anything about meeting me.
The days leading up to my trip were boring and then blank. He posted about surfing and weather conditions and once about a French restaurant that was supposed to be the best new place in Aruba. Idly, I wondered if he had met Meph through foodporn. Nothing about his supposed job.
Ah, there it was. “Met quite a lovely lady last night. One of us, I’m
How did an accountant on Aruba acquire this wardrobe, I wondered. There weren’t even many places to buy this kind of clothing on that island, at least so far as Margit would tell me. She always went to London or Paris to shop.
I went through the drawers incorporated into the closet, full of socks and shirts and sweaters. No magical implements, no robes, no books.
There had to be books somewhere, and a computer. Or something.
I went back to the room. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I opened the curtains slightly. Enough moon-light filtered through the glass that I could make out the desk, the piles of clothing we’d dropped on the floor, the telephone and the little hotel pad and pen on the bedside table.
Marten’s computer sat on the desk. I opened it and turned it on and cursed softly. I’d forgotten how much I hated Windows. I’d heard XP was better, but he was running 2000 and it was miserably slow.
First off, I knew I’d need some kind of cover prepared in case he woke up and found me with his computer, so I opened Explorer and brought up Zappos. If he asked I could always say that I couldn’t sleep and was just looking at shoes. In fact, I found Zappos.com high up in his history. Which answered part of how he found great shoes on his tiny island.
Then I opened another window and clicked on a familiar icon that looked like it should be MagicMirror. If he actually had credentials on the site that would explain a lot. And would demand a lot of other, more difficult explanations. I could understand him having some of the software. I knew that certain departments made software for the Initiated among the mortals, and it seemed that Marten ranked there. But if he could actually connect . . .
It was slow. I didn’t know if it was just searching aimlessly or if the machine was just slow. And then, haltingly, the familiar welcome page came up with the animated graphic fire motif. He was on.
I was going to have to ask for some answers on that one.
Unless—I wondered.
And then I was very lucky, because he’d stayed logged into his account, which meant that his access to MagicMirror was wide open to me. I had thought he was smarter than that. My respect for him took a nosedive, and then I reminded myself that he lived on Aruba, with a low crime rate and one demon. He probably didn’t think about passwording his private data—Aruba was a lot more secure than New York. At least I hoped it was a cultural difference and not an indication of unfathomable stupidity.
The window took me directly to his profile page, complete with picture. Meph was on his friends list, along with Marduk and Hatuman and a few other demons of my acquaintance. Margit wasn’t on his list—so at least he didn’t know about her. Or maybe he did and chose to make himself less visible to the local Hierarchy. I made a mental note of his user name.
He had found me, too, and had added me to his hot list to read, but not as a friend. Which meant that I wouldn’t know that he was reading my public postings.
How long had he read my journal? Suddenly I was paranoid. Had he been stalking me? Had he been reading for a while before we left the States? Or had he only found it after I’d left?
I went to read his journal, and since I was reading with his sign-in I had access to all of his locked and private posts. I went back to before I arrived on Aruba. I wanted to see if he’d been tracking me beforehand, and if he wrote anything about meeting me.
The days leading up to my trip were boring and then blank. He posted about surfing and weather conditions and once about a French restaurant that was supposed to be the best new place in Aruba. Idly, I wondered if he had met Meph through foodporn. Nothing about his supposed job.
Ah, there it was. “Met quite a lovely lady last night. One of us, I’m
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