Burned

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The call came just before seven.

It was a Saturday evening in December. I’d closed late; it was the last weekend before Christmas, and the shop had been packed all day. It was past six when I finally shooed out the last customers, shut and locked the door and turned off the lights before heading upstairs. Hermes had snuck in again, and was lying curled up on my armchair, the white tip of his bushy tail tucked in around his nose. I dropped on to the sofa with a yawn and started going through my emails.

My eyelids were drifting closed when the communicator chimed. I’d been so drowsy I’d barely even seen it coming. Hermes opened one amber eye and watched as I pulled myself to my feet, took out the blue-purple disc from my drawer and activated it. A miniature holographic figure in blue light materialised on top of the disc. ‘Hey, Talisid,’ I said, setting the disc down on my desk. ‘What’s up?’

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