Cupid’s Match

The bell tinkles as we step inside. It looks the same as last time, except now Curtis is sitting beneath the long, golden arrow at the front desk. He’s casually flicking through a newspaper and doesn’t look up.

“We’re not taking on—”

“Any new clients at this time. Yes, I’d heard,” I say.

On seeing Cal, Curtis hurriedly shoves his paper beneath some files by his monitor. Then his dark eyes narrow on me.

“Cupid’s Match,” he says.

“Yes,” says Cal, “and proving to be more difficult than I’d expected.”

He says it a little too genuinely, in my opinion.

“I’m showing her some of Cupid’s files in a hope to get her to take this more seriously.”

“Be careful how much you divulge,” Curtis says. “She’s a human.”

“I’m quite aware of that,” Cal says, voice clipped.

Curtis shrugs and pushes a clipboard across the stone desk. “Well, she’ll have to sign in.”

The sign-in sheet is a blank piece of paper with only two Italian names at the top. Today’s date is written beside them. Are the Arrows already here?

“We don’t get many visitors,” Curtis offers in brusque explanation.

“I can’t imagine why. You’re all so friendly.” I scribble down my name. “You had two visitors tonight, though.”

I feel Cal tense beside me. “Visitors?”

Curtis takes back the clipboard. “Couple of cupids from the Italian branch. In town on business. They wanted to use a computer so they could access the server. I let them use yours seeing as you haven’t been in the office all day.” There’s something a little accusatory in his tone.

Cal’s features give nothing away as he strides through the door beside the reception desk. I hurry after.

“The Arrows?”

“They must have found Carter,” he says, jaw hard. “They could have easily learned he used to work in the archives, and Selena said he still visited Elysium. We should have taken him in. We need to hurry.”

A few of the cupids rushing around the desks and stone columns look at us as we enter, but no one says anything to us as we head to Cal’s office. I sit down in his red armchair, casting my gaze around his little section of the Matchmaking Service as he switches on his computer. Other than the chipped mug beside the kettle, there’s nothing personal in here—it’s all just files and office equipment.

“You should get a plant or something,” I say as he slowly types something with two slender fingers. “Spruce this place up a bit.”

“I had a plant once. It died,” he says, deadpan, eyes fixed on the flat computer screen.

“Oh.” Well, that’s the end of that conversation then. I fiddle with a loose red thread on the arm of the chair. “Find anything?”

“I’m in his files. He’s scanned a lot of books in. But I can’t . . . ah, got it.”

He clicks something. Then his face blanches.

“What is it?” I say.

He curses under his breath. “It’s not there. The Arrows must have wiped it after they left.”

“Curtis said they used your computer to log in?” I say. “Have you checked for deleted files? They could still be on there.”

He looks at me blankly. I lift myself from the armchair and go stand behind him. “Just go back to the desktop . . . no . . . no, don’t click there. See that little bin icon? . . . No . . . not that one . . .”

He moves the mouse wildly about the screen and I bite back the growing spurt of frustration. It reminds me of the time I tried to show my grandma how to send an email.

“What are you doing?! Just get out of the way!” I slap his hand off the mouse and lean over him, feeling his irritable breaths on the back of my neck. “How do you have all this surveillance technology and not know how to use a computer properly?”

I navigate to the recycle bin. A jolt of relief passes through me: a file named “Records of the Finis” is at the top of the list of recently deleted PDF files. I click on it and the scanned pages of the book fill the screen. Luckily, it seems that the Arrows’ technology skills are just as modern as my grandmother’s.

“I can use a computer fine,” mutters Cal. He nudges my arm in a battle for dominance of the mouse. Moments later, a whirring sound fills the room as the printer on the filing cabinet behind the armchair springs to life. “But it’s not like I grew up with my face glued to a screen like you kids today . . .”

“You just grew up shooting arrows and playing with abacuses, I guess.”

“Abaci.”

“What?”

“The plural of abacus is abaci.”

My lip twitches and he flashes me a grumpy look. Seconds later, he crosses the room and swipes the printed document from the tray.

“Want me to delete the file permanently?” I ask.

He inclines his head as he skims through the pages. When I look back at Cal, his usually steady hands are trembling.

“Cal? What’s wrong?”

“We need to get back,” he says, his face paling. “The Arrows might be there already. Once they’ve found out where she’s put it, they’ll kill her.”

I frown. “What do you mean? Who was the last cupid to have the Finis?”

Cal looks at me, panic in his silver eyes.

“Crystal,” he says. “It was Crystal.”