The Quimby Hotel

━ 06: Inadequate Compensation

"I thought you said the hotel was protected."

"It protects. Magical. Beings," Mr. Quimby gritted out slowly, the pauses between his words a telltale mark of his otherwise unobservable stress. He slid a fresh cigar from a neat box of them, shielding the flame with one hand as he lit it. Though his hands were sure, his eyes, drifting into the distance, betrayed his disorientation with the whole situation.

Cairo exhaled a shaky laugh. "So much for all of us living in harmony, then, yeah?"

"They're trying to drive me out of my hiding place. Killing human customers until I have no choice but to concede my hand."

Cairo looked at him sharply. "Then just give it up," he said, his voice laced with something like disgust. "What could possibly be so valuable that it's worth putting the entire family, and the lives of your customers, in danger?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand." His father's voice was hard.

"You're right. I don't understand, because you won't tell me anything."

"Cairo, for the love of God, you don't need to know everything all of the time!" he snapped, turning to him and tightening his grip on the rail of the balcony that looked over the lobby. Hotelgoers roamed like lazy cattle, talking in hushed whispers that accumulated in a collective buzz in the air. Cairo drew back. "I know you learn by listening, but sometimes, you just have to wait. It isn't always about you."

Scowling, Cairo shifted, leaning back on the railing and folding his arms. "I never implied that it was," he muttered irritably, ears burning red.

"Things were in a lull before you arrived, boy. And now out of the blue, someone is dead. Just what did those guardsmen tell you?"

"They told me to bring you a message. To remind you who you've crossed, and that they're going to restore order. That's it. They would have found a way to deliver that message with or without me. I have disastrous luck, but this isn't my fault, and it would be asinine to imply that it is."

His father finally stilled, giving him a nod to concede the point. It was the closest thing to an admission that he was right that Cairo was going to get, an acknowledgement of his innocence. Cairo had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. But he hadn't caused any of this. That was all on his parents.

"The Court doesn't care about humans," Mr. Quimby snarled, now talking to himself. "They only care about rules. Rules and justice. It makes them feel better about the fact that they don't have a say within the larger magical community. They'll kill as many of my guests as it takes for me to succumb to their demands. A fair trade, they'll say. An absolute idiot circus."

"You talk about them like you weren't one of them."

"No," he corrected, "I know precisely how they think and how they work because I was one of them. The Court is too pretentious to do anything on their own; hence, they send the Guard to do their dirty work. The Guard, Cairo, is made up of formally educated morons with about half a brain between them. When we can't beat them in a fight, outsmarting them will be sufficient."

He leaned forward on his elbows, taking a puff of the cigar before letting his arms dangle, hovering several yards above unsettled guests who were seemingly entertained in some sick sense by the body that had fallen from the second floor. Like death was a game, like it was all an interesting car crash to watch from afar so long as it never affected you yourself. Cairo supposed in a way that was true. "Did you know about the spy, before?" he asked, gaze flickering between his father and the crowd.

Mr. Quimby didn't look at him. "I do now. That's all that matters."

So he hadn't. How the tables had turned, Cairo being one step ahead.