The office Aaliyah led him to was decorated in the same style as most of the rest of the headquarters — cliche noir. Eresthanon wondered what the design theme had been before a hard-boiled private investigator with no way out was put in charge of decorating the place.

A reception desk with a big green blotter was to the right of the door. Behind it, tall, vertical windows ran nearly floor to ceiling, hung with horizontal blinds for that high contrast noir effect. The office was also strangely green, the walls draped with a dense layer creeping and hanging vines.

There was only a second to admire the lush vegetation before Eresthanon’s musing was interrupted by two men who had come striding down the hallway beyond the reception area and stopped just short of them.

“Well, if it isn’t the affirmative action faction,” one of them said in a reedy voice. He was a pale, older man, probably in his sixties. He had a starved, haggard look that was not improved by his dark, rumpled suit. He wore a flat-brimmed hat and aviator sunglasses. A hand-rolled cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.

“Dylan,” Aaliyah said drily. She turned to the man’s partner. “And West, of course.”

West, a much younger black man, was dressed in alternating black and white — black leather jacket over a white hooded sweatshirt, black jeans, white sneakers. He grinned in a way best described as “shit-eating.”

“Ay, the diversity hires,” West jeered, turning his grin on Eresthanon. “You got here just in time to sit around doing nothing.”

Eresthanon ignored their jabs and whatever dynamic lay behind them, turning to Aaliyah with a politely inquisitive look.

“It’s been quiet, that’s for sure,” she said, but didn’t elaborate. “I suppose you two got one on the hook?”

“Some kind of aether bunco getting ran on big wigs,” West said, rubbing his hands together before putting on his own sunglasses — a pair of oversized things with squared white frames.

“It’s no time-traveling assassin, but it beats the hell out of getting hired as a mascot to sit around and contribute to a quota,” Dylan said.

“Uh huh,” Aaliyah said with a roll of her eyes. “So, what’s the scam?”

The other two detectives looked at each other over their sunglasses. They said nothing, just turned their condescending stares back towards Aaliyah.

“C’mon,” she said, “What am I gonna do? Steal your case?”

Dylan said nothing, but he shrugged and West gave them another big, toothy smile.

“Too soon to say much,” West said, “but the con is supposed to be improvement on creating aetherium. They get the mark to put in their own aether and give them back some bogus knock-off and pocket the difference.”

“Way we hear it so far, this might be a whole new level of aetherium counterfeiting, hard to detect or test for, so it could turn out to be huge,” Dylan added.

“Real talk, that don’t sound like it’s small fry; could be a big collar,” Aaliyah said.

Eresthanon glanced at Aaliyah for a moment. He was having trouble figuring out whether she was genuinely interested or not. She didn’t strike him as the type to take snide comments and other abuse from anyone, yet these two were piling it on and she responded with no pushback. From what he’d seen of her so far, he expected any contempt from her to be exaggerated so the mockery was clear; she didn’t hide her derision. Her earnestness, now, didn’t mesh with what he understood of her personality.

The other detectives, Dylan and West, didn’t seem to have noticed and were using Aaliyah’s apparent interest as a ladder to climb higher up on their horses to gloat.

“I’m sure there’ll be a charity case for the charity cases soon enough,” West said. “Anyways, we’ve got to head Uptown to interview some lux fratty who’s our first potential vic. He wants to talk to us at some exclusive social club, so it’s a good thing you didn’t catch this call, Dean, since they probably wouldn’t even let you in.”

Dylan wheezed with glee and Aaliyah just offered them a saccharine smile. “Happy hunting,” she said with a wave, moving out of the doorway to let them pass. Eresthanon followed her lead, taking a step further into the small lobby of the office.

On their way out, Dylan and West made sure to deliver obligatory jack-ass shoulder bumps to Eresthanon and Aaliyah, though it didn’t go as they likely expected — Eresthanon rolled with the brush-by from Dylan, denying any meaningful contact, but Aaliyah simply stood her ground. The burly West actually came out the worst in that little altercation, bouncing off Aaliyah without budging her in the slightest.

When they were gone, Aaliyah snorted. “Serpico and McClane, there, are the biggest douches in the squad, possibly the entirety of the VC. Sorry you had to run into those monuments to homeschooling this early.”

Eresthanon shrugged. “In any group, you will find a mix of people, both pleasant and less so.”

Aaliyah shook her head, her long braids swishing across her back. “Assholes everywhere, sure, but those two are the worst sort. They think they’re regular cops and chase after the most penny ante shit imaginable if it even remotely falls under the Four Pillars. Dollars to donuts they pried that case out of some low-level nobody’s hands downstairs just to have something to do, maybe even just to have a reason to gloat when we got here.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I know assholes, is what. Besides, they’re the type to go out and buy boots just in the hopes that someone’ll lick ‘em, the jack-offs.”

Aaliyah had a way of painting a vivid mental picture with her words and Eresthanon found it quite entertaining. Perhaps she should appreciate a partner who could engage in witticisms with her?

He offered her a small smile and asked, “Do you like classic films, Quaesitor Dean? Particularly police and detective stories?”

Aaliyah squinted at him. “I’m not a big movie buff, no. What’s it to you?”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“There’s this bit of slang they used in some older movies — usually as a pejorative — when referring to private investigators or detectives.”

“Pejori-what?”

“Pejorative, an insult. Private detectives were often called ‘private dicks’ in those old films. I’m not sure if the term ‘dick’ was ever used to mean detectives employed by recognized law enforcement, but that’s somewhat irrelevant to the point.”

Aaliyah crossed her arms. “And the point would be…”

“It seems to me, adopting such slang for our own devices, that our two colleagues could be aptly described as a pair of ‘dickish dicks.’”

He put a button on the joke with a saucy wink. Aaliyah snorted a laugh and even the plants in the office seemed to rustle with laughter.

“You’re fucking with me,” Aaliyah said. “They didn’t used to say ‘dick’ in old movies, did they? Get outta here. What about all the censorship or whatever?”

“Indeed they did. Even the Hays Code couldn’t easily target homonyms if they weren’t being used for single or double entendres.”

“Alright, I don’t know what all of that meant, but I’ll take your word for it,” she chuckled. “‘Dickish dicks.’ I like it.”

Eresthanon looked around the office, examining the lush vegetation more thoroughly. Creepers of ivy crawled up the walls and dangled from the ceiling in such density the wood paneling was barely visible. There was even a potted plant several feet tall placed right behind the reception desk.

“I must say, this is a bit more greenery than I would have imagined for a modern office space.”

“Thank you, I try to stay hydrated,” the potted plant said.

When he turned to Aaliyah, thinking she must have been the one to speak and was pulling his figurative leg, she only smirked at him. He was missing something. Eresthanon followed his instincts and focused more closely on the potted plant. It was shaped in a most unusual way —almost like a seated person. The longer he looked, the more details he noticed that clearly suggested the form of a woman.

The plant was, in fact, sitting on a desk chair.

“Why, that’s never a kissiae, is it?”

“You know my people?” the potted plant — a kissiae — asked.

“Of course; I’m familiar with all manner of nymphs. But I’d thought the kissiae either long extinct or largely confined to Greece. Or that they had perhaps grown dormant. As far as my knowledge went, there have been no reported interactions in many centuries.”

“We do mostly restrict ourselves to our ancestral home, yes, and many of my sisters have dug deep to become torpid, but not all of us. Most folks can’t tell the difference from one nymph to the next if we don’t take on particularly exaggerated forms,” the elemental said, gesturing at herself with several independent vines.

“Remarkable,” Eresthanon breathed. “Despite modern misconceptions about elves being forest-dwelling herbivores — to which we owe our dastardly cousins, the fae, as much ‘gratitude’ as we do Tolkien — I can honestly say it is an unmitigated pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Eresthanon extended a hand to the plant and it was promptly gripped by a hand composed of bundled branches and wrapped in vines with surprisingly soft leaves.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” the plant said, squeezing his hand lightly. “I’m called Ivy Hedera and I look forward to working with you, Tribune Eresthanon.”

Despite his muted elven emotions, Eresthanon couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Ivy Hedera? Your name is ‘ivy’ ‘ivy?’”

Aaliyah heaved a tremendous sigh. “Excited as I’m sure you are to be working with a creature from whom the term ‘nympho’ was derived, maybe you two can screw later? We have work to do.”

A trailer of vine descended from the ceiling and patted Aaliyah on the head.

“Don’t be gauche, it makes you look jealous,” Ivy said. “It’s called being personable and you might find it’s an excellent way to make friends. Besides, if our new Tribune would like to get even more friendly, I’m sure there’ll be ample time for that in the future.”

With a great scoffing harumph, Aaliyah stomped off down the hallway leading out of the reception area. Ivy tittered at her desk, leaves and vines all around the room rustling with mirth. Eresthanon bowed his head to her as he set off after his partner.

The hallway ran along one corner of the building and had doors on either side. Spacious offices lined the exterior wall, with glass walls facing the hallway and tall windows looking out onto a narrow street lined with skyscrapers. They were at least twenty storeys up. The nameplates on the large offices indicated they were all occupied by Quaesitors, like Aaliyah. Assuming, of course, that was what the Q before each name meant. The interior offices, those that had nameplates, were marked with a T, likely indicating they belonged to other Tribunes.

Aaliyah gestured at the exterior offices. “On the right are offices for cool people, like me — Dylan being the sweaty exception — and on the left are offices for lackeys and hangers-on, like you. You can find more utilitarian rooms on the loser side, for things like storage, filing, toilets, performing minor magic rituals, and so on. You’ll figure it out by opening unlabelled doors and looking inside with those big, spooky peepers.”

“All the better to see you with,” Eresthanon said.

Aaliyah puffed some air through her teeth to let him know what she thought of that little joke, then stopped at the door to the second large office in the hallway. Her name was engraved on the plate affixed to the glass wall, which was opaque with some kind of smoky tint. She waved her hand and the glass cleared, revealing the office behind.

“This is my office and that’s not an invitation to make yourself at home. Your dungeon is right across the hall so I can throw things at you if my door is open and the mood strikes me.”

She pushed open the door to the office across from hers. It had a nameplate that read, T.leg Eresthanon, and, under that, (Eric Nathanial). It was about half as large as her office — which was still a comfortable amount of room — and very sparsely furnished. There was a broad desk with a comfortable armchair behind it, two chairs for guests, and a filing cabinet. There was no sign of the kissiae in the office, but several vines rustled overhead in the hallway.

Ivy’s voice came from above. “I don’t like to decorate any of the offices with myself without permission and a sense of how expansive I’m welcome to be.”

“Make yourself at home, Ms. Hedera,” the elf replied.

“You’re too sweet. And I prefer Miss, or Ivy, if you like.”

“Thank you, Miss Ivy,” Eresthanon replied.

“Euch. In here, you goon,” Aaliyah said, pushing through the door of her own office impatiently.

Eresthanon winked vaguely at the walls, knowing Ivy would see it and Aaliyah would not, then followed into her office. Aaliyah’s space was almost as spartan as his and similarly lacked for Ivy’s presence. She shut the door behind him with more force than necessary, not quite slamming it, and waved a hand again. Both interior and exterior windows darkened with the same smoky tint as earlier, sealing the two of them off from the outside world.

“Alright, let’s talk shop, elf boy,” Aaliyah said.