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Crispin walked quietly beside the Director as they returned to the fiery scene. He had heard so much about this man, all of it predictably unpleasant; ruthlessness and cruelty mixed with a knack for manipulation in both realms. Peregrin Warlock carried himself in a most unnatural manner that was both confident and sneaky, like a creeping predator would, and everything that moved was his prey. Peregrin's skin was a darker shade of grey than his son's, his pupils were crimson red and darted around, constantly, always alert. His dark hair was slicked back in-between his extra-large curled horns that curved around the sides of his long head, oily locks fragrant with Brylcream. He clacked sharply as he swept along, the pale dusty bones of his wings and tail knocking together with every move, though his smart brogue shoes and fine linen work-robes were silent. He was the kind of monster that mortal humans back on the living plane would fear in the dark of night; a clawed, winged, fanged terror that you didn't see coming until your fate was already sealed.

They carefully approached the gathered Directors and Inner Circle royalty. In front of the crackling office block, bathed in its firey glow, Aleister and Alexis Crowley were deep in discussion with the Chief of Hell's police. The Infernal Security Wraith held a jotter pad, scribbling notes with twisting movements of his stubby talons as a faint trail of magic washed over the pages.

"This doesn't look good," Crispin hissed. "That uppity git is running his big mouth again. He threatened me with the waste paper basket, you know. Anar threw an office chair at him for his trouble." He watched Peregrin's steel-grey eyebrows raise slightly, but the tall aardvark made no reply.

The Director was poised; coiled like a spring, waiting for what was about to unfold. His steady gaze was fixed on the head of Underworld security, or where his head would be if he didn't have a large cowl that hid him from direct view. Wraiths were even uglier than demons; part decaying corpse, part Hell-bound spirit, all evil. The note-taking ceased. The cowl turned in folds towards the gathered senior staff members and a sudden shock of chill hit Peregrin's spine as white, dead eyes met his own.

"YOU!" the wraith roared toward the pair of them.

Various antlers, horns and eye-stalks swivelled in confusion; what was going on now? was Peregrin in trouble? Surely not! He'd been away in the mortal realm all this time, working remotely.

Jez Huttgart objected loudly, "my son had nothing to do with any of this!" but was promptly ordered to hush as Crispin wasn't the focus of the wraith's attention.

"What of me?" Peregrin asked with a defiant snarl, his back straightening as wings creaked open, making himself look larger and more imposing. "I do hope that nobody is careless enough to point fingers at me, when I have been working in the mortal realm and therefore absent during the unfolding of these unfortunate events." He took deliberate steps forward, showing his refusal to be intimidated. "I would remind certain demon colleagues that I know their stock brokers personally, and they have been known to make mistakes. Investments are risky business..." he trailed off with a sinister hiss as those around him grumbled angrily at his veiled threats.

"You wouldn't dare crash our stocks!"

"Lucifer wouldn't allow it!"

Peregrin roared, spreading his arms, "and where is Lucifer right now? Hell is burning! Your work is going up in flames and His Dark Majesty is absent! He has grown tired of you all skulking down here in the dark, with your old archaic ways and your muted powers. Imagine how little he cares if you lose everything and are left squabbling over dirt, without respite from the heat of the flames. You sneer at me for embracing the mortal realm and its opportunities, yet I'm the one who can escape from all of this anytime I choose."

They were even grumpier now.

"Don't try to change the subject," Aleister warned, "Security has questions for you, Warlock! Whether you were here or not, it's common knowledge that your son is a Person of Interest. Even you don't have the balls to defy Security. You can't weasel your way out of this, not when they bring Anarchy in to the detention centre and make him talk."

The Chief of Hell's police perked up, putting recent events together. "That was your son?!" the otherworldly voice spat, "I thought it was you! The grey skin, the long ears and nose... he drove a fancy car at me and made it disappear! He used natural magic! Our alarms were ringing all over the city. We couldn't track him down. Tell us where he is!" he raised his wand in an emerald arc of light, pointing it at the aardvark, demanding answers.

Peregrin jutted his chin, still refusing to show fear or submit to authority. He raised his Nokia to a slender ear, a loud outgoing call connection clearly audible through the plastic casing.

The wraith nodded. "Yes, call him immediately. Bring him here. We will deal with him accordingly..."

Peregrin spoke into the handset, his words crisp and respectful, "My Dark Lord, our Most unholy Infernal Majesty, it pains me to report that not only is our precious office building still burning, but your slack Security team are busy pointing their weapons at us Directors instead of actually investigating this heinous crime..."

As one, they drew a sharp intake of hot air.

"What are you thinking?"

"You can't just call our Lord Lucifer like you would your bank manager! This is madness!"

He continued, "Aleister Crowley has had the audacity to accuse my own son of the crime of arson, while his son Alexis has been failing to reach his performance targets for two years now, despite only being in charge of a few senior administrators..."

"You utter bastard!"

"End the call, Peregrin, for everyone's sake."

Unpeturbed, he relentlessly relayed further bad news to the Devil, bust business deals - expensive ones at that, naming Directors who had been absent to important meetings, even exposing minion's fudged expense sheets. Merkren came in useful sometimes. You could never have enough dirt on your colleagues in this place; it was what kept you on the upper floors.

With moans and wails the gathered Directors pleaded and begged him to stop, fearing for their Undead forms, terrified of the wrath of the ruler of the Underworld. They skittered off to their residences, slinking away to lick metaphorical wounds and make phone calls of their own to save their hideous hides.

Crispin’s head spun round, frantically, unsure of what to do; even his own father hadn't hung around while everyone's misdeeds were being exposed and Lucifer was listening. He had stood frozen next to Peregrin and had remained unscathed from this verbal attack on the entire board that had seemingly come from nowhere, still unsure of what this grey Director had in store for him.

Eventually, the aardvark was satisfied that they were alone in the square, and he lowered the mobile from his ear, falling silent. Security had quickly blasted the building with bright flashes of powerful magical energy and the fire was finally put out. Their security Range Rovers had sped off back to their headquarters. No-one could say they hadn't done their duty now, at least.

The charred remains of the building steamed in the darkness of the falling night.

'At the third stroke, the time will be seven forty-six and ten seconds...'

A long nail pressed to end the call.

Crispin exhaled, his hand shakily pointing to the senior demon's blue Nokia and the screen that was now dark. "You... weren't actually...?"

"No," Peregrin said, firmly. "But they didn't know that, did they? That's what happens when you spend too much time down here, you become easily bamboozled by modern technology. They probably don't even know what the Speaking Clock is."

Crispin gave a nervous laugh, "everyone really thinks you phoned the Dark Lord up and tattled on them."

Peregrin nodded, solemnly. "Now we have bought ourselves a little time. Tell me, Crispin, how did my son manage to escape his contract? Actually, why don't we have a chat in cosier surroundings? I'm still a member of the Fiend Fellows club and they have a very well-stocked bar."

Crispin nodded, looking relieved but still trembling, "a drink does sound really good, right about now."

They walked the now empty street of central Pandemonium towards an old sandstone building with carved columns at the top of marble steps, and slipped inside.