Pressed into Service (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 10), page 1
Pressed into Service
Songs of the Amaranthine, 10
Pressed into Service
Copyright © 2024 by FORTHRIGHT
ISBN: 978-1-63123-093-6
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or shared in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author. Which is a slightly more officious way of saying what I’ve always asked. Play fair. Be nice. But by all means, have fun! ::twinkle::
TWINKLE PRESS
FORTHWRITES.COM
Table of Contents
Office Party
Copy Desk
Egg Nog
All Hours
Breakfast Tour
Squinty Eye
Giving Chase
Theater Buff
Cozy Tizzy
Hung Over
Murphy Bed
Hot Tip
Going Public
Lost Time
Stage Presence
Out Sick
Artless Beauty
Not Himself
Nervous Rambling
Pure Silver
On Display
Gorgeous Color
Swapping Socials
Best Light
Uneven Stride
Coming Clean
Learning Curve
Cultural Exchange
Farthest Thing
Box Seats
History Repeats
Cover Girl
Popular Opinion
After Party
because breaking news can be good
Proud to be running your story on
Page 1. You’re an inspiration!
—Levity Jones-Highwind, The Emergent
FUMIKO AND THE FINICKY NESTMATE
Office Party
Levity peered around the conference room that she and Tippy had spent half the day decorating for tonight’s party. Swoops of glittering gold and sprays of silver. Plastic champagne flutes and party store top hats. With this and that, they hadn’t been able to swing an office party before Christmas, so they were going all out with a New Year’s theme.
Angelo, their cameraman, said, “I heard the Parsnip staff rented out a bougie place on the wharf for their year-end party.”
Mick snorted. “You really want foie gras and uni?”
“What’s uni?”
“Lump of yellow goo they pull out of sea urchins. It’s roe. Their eggs.”
Angelo had his phone out, and he was making a face. “Guess I might try it if Levity and her sister made me, but this is better. This is us.”
The guys clinked their plastic flutes of fizzy apple juice. Neither of them drank alcohol. Mick because, after a couple of decades on his beat, he’d needed to stop. Angelo, who had three little ones at home, because he didn’t plan to start, given his family history. They were good boys, and Levity loved them like pack.
“Keep eating, everyone!” Becca ordered, waving her phone. “Six more boxes just hit the elevator. Hot and fresh!”
“Yes, ma’am!” Angelo answered, shoving half a slice of pizza into his mouth.
“You’re a damn fine woman, Chief,” rumbled Mick.
Levity had been the one to suggest the rolling orders from Yuu and Mia, the gourmet pizzeria on the ground floor of the building across the street. According to Divinity Highstreet, prima donna of the foodie magazine with offices upstairs, everything on their menu was gorgeous. Tonight, the staff of the Perspective aimed to see if her professional opinion held up to scrutiny.
“Where’s Murph?” Levity asked.
Angelo shook his head. “He was here earlier.”
“It’s Murph,” said Mick. “Where else would he be?”
Becca, their editor-in-chief, said, “I made him swear to stay until midnight.”
Tippy rolled closer and gently pointed out, “That just means he’ll work until midnight.”
They weren’t wrong. Levity was already on the move. “I’ll bring him back.”
Copy Desk
Levity sauntered past hushed cubicles, tracking their copy editor to his lair.
Murph was exactly the sort of man you’d expect to find at the Perspective’s copy desk. Knowledgeable. Meticulous. Dedicated. He worked out of one of the few actual offices in their section, partly out of respect for his seniority. Murph had been here just as long as Becca. But also because he couldn’t stand all the noise the rest of them made. He groused about focus and distractions and unnecessary prattle.
Levity thought his grumping was cute. Maybe it was the accent?
She tapped on his door, which swung open on well-oiled hinges. Leaning against the frame, she softly scolded, “Give it a rest, Murph. We can’t celebrate the highlights of the old year without our Tellridge award winner.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Your award. The one you accepted last night. What’ve you done with it?”
He snorted, which was no kind of answer.
She prowled into the room, which he’d turned into a kind of sanctuary. Personal touches abounded, the sorts of little things that accumulated slowly over time. They layered the room, hinting at the man’s life outside the office. Except he was here more than he ever went home, so maybe this room really was the true essence of Murph.
Along one wall, he’d set up an antique pew, all straight back and silken wood. Her butt had been on its stiff, green velvet cushions enough times to know that it was murder on one’s tail. Murph had flat-out refused to explain why it was even here, but she knew he used it to catch naps. Maybe that was the old piece’s appeal. It was long enough to accommodate a man of Murph’s considerable height. But it could have been some kind of family heirloom, carried all the way from Ireland.
“Found you,” she murmured, extricating a gleaming hunk of acrylic and gold that was partially lodged under a plaid blanket. She moved his award to the ledge that surrounded his desk. “You worked hard for this. Give it a better home!”
“I never worked a day for that bit of cheap or for the patter of disinterested applause that accompanied its bestowal. My ideals are incentive enough and impetus aplenty.” Murph peered at her over the blue light glasses he used whenever he was working. “Don’t take an editor’s lot lightly, Levity Jones.”
“It’s a holiday!” she protested. “There’s a party.”
“There’s a deadline, and it’s my unenviable job to haul you lot safely across it. Also, I’m changing your headline. Again.”
“What? Whyyy? Wait. Only one of them?”
Murph shot her an exasperated look, then tapped his screen with a capped red pen. “This one sets the right tone. It’s a light piece, so the pun stands. But this one? No.”
“I could try again,” she offered.
“Don’t bother. I fixed it.” Waving at the wall above his desk, he blandly added, “It’s what I do.”
While the office walls of many professionals displayed their credentials and commendations, Murph tacked up assorted magazine clippings, obscure words, completed crossword puzzles, and headlines for which he was especially proud. There were also typos he’d found, printed columns he’d gone over in red ink, and a top-down list of Levity’s most ridiculous headlines. She was pretty proud of them.
“What did you go with?”
He tossed a piece of scratch paper her way. He’d written her headline in block letters before slashing through it. Three other options were similarly dismissed, with the replacement circled twice. She could see that he’d also been working on anagrams at some point during the evening. And jotted a short grocery list in the corner.
“Come eat pizza,” she coaxed.
“I ate.” He gestured vaguely at a paper plate with a couple of abandoned crusts on it.
“Come have a drink. It’ll be midnight before you know it. Welcome the new year with us.”
“I hate parties, Levity. Leave me in peace.”
But his tone held traces of fondness, and she could tell by scent that his reluctance was mostly for show. Murph would let her have her way.
So Levity circled the desk and took his arm, and he let her pull him up and along, back toward the lights and laughter. Then she pressed a cup topped by spice-flecked foam into his hand. “You can raise a glass for me.”
“You don’t need me toasting you. You’re the toast of the city. Of the whole damned coast.”
“What a sweet thing to say.” She nudged him toward the other boys. “Help Mick and Angelo eat the new pizzas.”
Murph balked. “What about you? You love food.”
“I do. But I love you guys more, which is why I’m giving you a head start.”
“Don’t hold back on my account,” he grumbled.
Levity blew him a kiss and shooed him off.
Egg Nog
“Really, Murph. Who gets tipsy after the tiniest bit of egg nog?”
The man shambled along the hall, leaning heavily on Levity. “Tipsy means … foolish from drink,” he muttered, not slurring at all. If anything, he spoke even more precisely than usual, as if carefully putting one word in front of the next. “From tip, of course. Adding an s … fairly common … like tricksy or drowsy or whimsy. Tipple came later.”
“I once met a beagle named Tipper.”
“I am a big tipper.” He
“I took off my heels. We’re practically the same height, Murph.” The man was actually one of the only people in Levity’s acquaintance who could throw an arm over her shoulder. She was smallish for a Highwind, but she was still a wolf.
He frowned at the floor, then complained, “You’re barefoot.”
“Because I took off my heels,” she patiently reminded.
“But it’s January!”
“Only just. Happy New Year, Murph.”
“You need slippers,” he said peevishly.
“I don’t need slippers.”
“I may have spare socks.”
“Murph, it’s fine. I’m not cold.” Levity braced the listing man and tried to open his office door. “It’s locked. Where’s the key?”
“Almond rocks is cockney for socks.”
“We need a key, Murph.”
“Knobby knees is slang for keys.”
“Do you really want me in your pockets?”
He blinked a couple of times, then fished out a small ring holding three keys. “I have a blanket. You may borrow my blanket.” Then leaning close enough to go cross-eyed, he asked, “Do you wear heels to look down on editors, Levity Jones?”
She laughed. Heels were part of her public persona, just like yellow was her signature color. Plus, open toes were more forgiving when it came to claws. Lowering him to a seat on his pew, she said, “I’m not looking down on you, Murph. You’re a fine editor.”
She turned him sideways, making him lie down, and folded his plaid blanket for a pillow.
When she pushed it under his head, he said, “Liar.”
Her brows shot up. “Have I lied to you?”
“You are looking down on me, Levity Jones.” His hand was warm and dry when it found her cheek. “Also … flimsy.”
It took her a moment to realize he was adding to his list—drowsy, whimsy, tipsy, and the rest. She leaned into his palm and smiled. “Don’t forget cutesy.”
His whole face lit up with a rarely-seen smile. “You understand.”
And then he pulled her down to kiss her.
Levity was surprised into letting things linger. And when Murph made a low note in the back of his throat, she responded instinctually, yielding to a deepening kiss that tasted like nutmeg and rum.
He fell back onto his makeshift pillow with a grumbled, “Stop distracting me, Levity Jones.”
“Am I distracting?” she asked.
“You get all my allusions,” he muttered, eyes drifting shut.
She stole golden confetti out of his hair, kissed his brow, then his frown. “You’re such a sweetheart, Murphy Koogan. But I’ll file away the expose. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Bury it on page ten,” he sighed.
“Mm-hmm. Let’s hope you’re not only an affectionate drunk, you’re a forgetful one.” She was quite sure he’d be mortified that a touch of drink had caused him to take leave of his senses. “You’re too kissable for your own good.”
Murph twisted his lean frame around, putting his back to her, muttering, “Don’t make light of me, Levity Jones.”
She took his coat from its hanger on the back of his door and draped him in dark wool.
He sighed deeply, then lapsed into the slow, even breathing of sleep.
Levity had been mingling with humans for long enough to know that every person had charm. But Murph was … extra. Not a reaver, not even an unregistered one, yet he shone in her eyes. Really, she wished she could find an excuse to introduce Murph to her landlady. Mare Blazelock had a knack for sorting souls.
All Hours
It was early, but Murph considered himself a morning person. He always arrived at the office before anyone else in order to enjoy a couple hours of peaceful industry. Murph was also a night person, and for similar reasons. Staying late gave him time to put to rights the day’s debacles.
He’d never really needed much sleep.
Becca aired the occasional protest, usually making mention of his annual stockpile of unused sick days and PTO, but she’d also entrusted the keys and security codes to him. Because Murph growled less when she let him stay on top of things. And that was better for everyone.
A distant ding gave him pause. It was barely six, which was when security unlocked the main entrance. Mick was on the clock earliest, since he worked part of his day remotely, staying on top of breaking news from out east. Tippy always arrived earliest, since she liked to have coffee ready before Becca dragged in, which probably made her the world’s best administrator. But Tippy also liked to take Angelou down to the dog run behind the building for a good romp before things went mad.
But this wasn’t Mick or Tippy or even Becca.
Murph had built up a kind of sixth sense where Levity Jones was concerned. Maybe it was some kind of latent survival instinct. Their relationship was … adversarial? Or maybe it was more territorial.
The Perspective held to a high standard, and it was his job to keep their star reporter—and her abysmal headlines—in check. In print, at least. He couldn’t say the same for social media, where she did as she pleased. And did it well, given the numbers. The woman had more followers than their city had citizens. And lord, she was coming.
He supposed it was possible that she simply needed something from her desk. But that rarely stopped her from dropping by his. Even when there was no need.
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Murph stood.
The woman had enough of a height advantage as it was.
Also, he wanted to check which shoes she was wearing. He’d have put money on the platform sandals. At least, it sounded like them, and confirming it was suddenly important. Not that it mattered. Not that he cared. He just noticed things. Like misspellings and misquotes and misattributions. And the base score of any 7-letter word in Scrabble.
Levity wafted through his door in a cloud of yellow that swirled distractingly just above her knees. “Good morning!”
He drew himself up and grumbled, “Well-apparel’d April on the heel Of limping Winter treads.”
“Aww, Murph! You say the sweetest things. Unless, of course, you’re accusing me of treading upon your heels.” And without missing a beat, she said, “You’re as full of spirit as the month of May, And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer.”
He sourly rejoined, “Now ’tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they’ll o’ergrow the garden.”
“Weeds? Really?” But Levity’s tone was light, and her smile was undiminished. “In the Spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the Spring.”
Conceding the bout, he averted his face and muttered, “As you like.”
“Much as I enjoy bandying about with you and Shakespeare, I’m here with intent.” She leaned against the raised ledge that made a flimsy barrier against so much force of personality. “I was on my way to breakfast when I realized you’re the only one who hasn’t responded in group chat.”
He frowned. “I respond to all messages in a timely manner.”
“It was on the after-hours channel.”
“Oh.” He refused to feel guilty.
“You have us muted, don’t you?”
Murph retreated to his chair. “Thoroughly muted. Since the conversation there is not work-related.”
“Today’s Tippy’s birthday, so we’re all going out after work. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“I have plans.”
“You do not. Don’t be a stick in the mud. It won’t be the same without you.”
He shot her a pained look. Levity was everything he wasn’t—outgoing, charismatic, confident in social settings. Murph knew his business, but most people didn’t care about Oxford commas or misplaced modifiers. “You’ll raise a glass and revel in fine style without me.”
“Drinks at seven. I reserved the back room at The Squinty Eye. If you’re late, I’ll hunt you down.”
This was no idle threat. It was uncanny how good she was at finding people.
“Come on, Murph. I chose someplace you like. That’ll make it less horrible to spend time with us.”
“You aren’t horrible. You’re ….” But he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Levity liked him. He could tell. But she liked everybody. It was part of the reason why people opened up to her, telling her the kinds of secrets that made headlines.
