Allen Walker stepped off the ship's gangplank and onto the dock, reeling a little from the solid sensation of land beneath his feet. The white-hot sun beat down on the back of his neck, and he regretted for the umpteenth time in a minute putting on his black exorcists' coat that morning. It had certainly seemed much cooler on the water, even as they had pulled in to the bustling marina. Allen glanced up at the sky that hung like a dome of pale lapis over them, searching for a shred of cloud that might tell tale of merciful rain, but there was not even a dream of liquid in the shining blue above.

The Finders beside him were wiping their brows, looking as if they would melt in their heavy cloaks, and Allen sighed terribly, shifting at the uncomfortable prickly feeling that had begun to radiate across his chest and the back of his neck. Well, it was not so much prickling as a curious buzzing, a sensation that he felt he knew, yet could not place.

A black carriage pulled up beside them with a great clattering, its African driver wearing a tall top hat but no shirt on his age-scarred back. He nodded at them slowly and they entered the carriage, settling against the red plush of the interior. The driver shut the door with a loud report and the air was suddenly stifling, as if the movement had sucked all the oxygen out of the cab. Allen fought momentarily with the window, trying to force it open, but settled down once he realized the futility of movement in such heat. The carriage jerked clumsily into motion as the horses started into a trot, and they were swept into the mayhem that was the outer marina.

The heat rising from the yellow flagstones of the marina brought a scent of dust and heady jasmine from the ladies' perfumed shoes. Allen watched as they passed by brightly coloured stalls and the mulatto dock workers gambling in the shade, their skin glowing from the sun and their laughs loud and musical. A few waved at the passing carriage, shouting welcome over the noise of the streets. As they passed into the wealthy quarter, great mansions rose up on either side, their whitewashed walls cracked and abused by the relentless sun. Even the most well-kept manors could not resist the force of its rays, paired with the terrible humidity.

Allen wondered at the lack of people out on the streets, not knowing that in the bold light of the afternoon the rich retreated into their homes, and the mansions hung heavy with the perfume of orchids and wild irises as the women retired to their rooms, fated to stay there until sunset, as was customary to preserve their aristocratic skin.

Presently they came to the estate of the ambassador, enclosed by a threateningly ornate iron fence. The gatekeeper—a handsome African in his thirties—sprang to his feet and unlocked the towering gate, letting it swing inward with a rusty complaint as the carriage passed through.

The ambassador's house was a large, stately building of red brick, and Allen had the suspicion that the ambassador had tried as best he could to replicate Kensington Palace, despite the design not being meant in the least for tropical heat. The effect was rather ostentatious.

They were met at the door by the first white man Allen had seen at the house yet, and ushered in.

The main hall was extremely grand, tiled in white Greek marble with tasteful gold-plated wall sconces and several less-than-tasteful bronze statuettes. A great potted banana attempted to suffocate Allen with a thick leaf as he passed the threshold, and one of the Finders was stabbed meanly by the fronds of a spiky palm.

"Come this way, sirs." Said the butler, directing them through another doorway.

As they passed the swinging kitchen door, Allen noticed several Africans cooking and stoking a blazing stove fire. "The ambassador employs many black servants, I see." He noted to the butler.

The butler looked surprise, then regarded him snootily. "Servants? Good heavens no, sir, those are the slaves."

"You keep slaves in this country?" Allen said, barely hiding his appall.

The butler went on, turning his nose up more with each word. "Ever since trading from Africa became illegal forty years back, it's been so hard to find good help. These are some of the last obedients in Rio."

Presently, they came to a massive, well-polished door decorated with hideous cherubim-shaped door-knockers, and the butler stopped, causing Allen to very nearly crash into his poker-straight back.

The butler knocked almost inaudibly on the door and a sound like someone coughing words came faintly through. With a touch from the butler, the door swung smoothly inward on its ornate hinges and Allen found himself face-to-face with the ambassador. He was very much struck by the anticlimactic nature of the whole event.

The ambassador was a short, bearded, walrus-like Englishman stuffed into a foppish brocade waistcoat. He looked rather like a pale dumpling, and Allen could not quite bring himself to take the man seriously as he spoke sternly to them in a voice like a growling bulldog.

"We've been having some trouble with these demons lately—they attacked the port in large numbers just over a month ago. Thousands of pounds in damage." He coughed, thick mustache convulsing as he did so. "We are unsure of the true reason for which they are attacking here of all places, but we suspect that someone in the city may be in possession of Innocence."

Allen stood listening, absently flexing his perspiring fingers. The thin gloves were sticking to them quite maddeningly, but courtesy prevented him from removing them. He raised a hand, feeling a bead of sweat spiral down his wrist. "May I ask a question, sir?"

"Yesyes," coughed the ambassador. "Of course, my boy."

"Excuse my boldness, but why did you not call the South American branch for this? Response time would have been cut considerably."

Another fit of growling coughs. Allen wondered if the humidity could affect one's constitution.

"Of course we considered that, my boy. But their success record is somewhat lower than the European branch's." He frowned, causing deep crevasses to form in his fat face, and he began muttering to himself. "Something to do with Señor Lotario's less-than-sober habits, I'll warrant."

He coughed again, this time so alarmingly that the finders moved to catch him in case he fainted from his red-faced exertion.

"We will begin investigation tomorrow morning." He wheezed. "Take some rest. Frederick, show him to his room."

The butler appeared at Allen's elbow, silently guiding him out of the office with a gentle force that betrayed his cordially masked authority. They ascended the marble steps, and Allen was glad for the coolness of the carven banister under his hand, letting his fingers tarry along its white surface.

"This is your room, sir." Said the butler, indicating a door to their left. "Your luggage will be brought shortly."

"Thank you." Allen said, opening the door.

The room was roughly the same size as his own at the Headquarters, though much more elaborate in the decor. The walls were painted cream (or perhaps they were white, only stained by the humid air as were many things) with elaborately carved white wainscoting all along them. Allen found it rather contrived to allow expense on such a thing as wainscoting, but he ignored it, and cast open the little window to air out the room. The furnishings were simple; a cot, a little nightstand with a pitcher of water, a slanted desk with a chair. Someone had put a little clay vase with a flower in the inkwell of the desk, and filled the drawer with paper. Allen toed off his boots and settled down on the cot, sighing as the springs creaked under his slight weight. He turned on his side and closed his eyes, fully intending to take a nap, perhaps dispel the lingering nausea from the stuffy carriage ride, but found his mind racing with a terrible unease. He spent some time flipping pillows and rolling about until he became quite tangled in the sheets, and gave up with a defeated sigh. He pulled on his boots and retied his thin necktie, checking that he looked presentable in the small mirror opposite the bed, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Allen knocked on the doorway of the ambassador's office, waiting politely until the man looked up.

"I'm going to get a little air." He said, holding his hands behind his back.

"All right," Said the ambassador, stroking his mustache. "But don't wander far, my boy. These Brazilians, they'll rob you blind if you're not careful."

The young man bowed and turned, laughing inwardly again at the rotund official. Once at the door, he reached for his Exorcist's coat, then decided against it and walked out into the hot midday sun.

He wandered down the cobblestone streets, taking in the maddening whirl of sounds and smells that was the city. Sailors and vendors of all races called out to the fine ladies who teetered by in their heels and garish hoopskirts like teacakes covered in powdered sugar, wilting a little more with each minute in the exceptional heat.

He turned a corner, still daydreaming, and watched rows of fishermen cleaning their morning catch, the silver scales flying up in showers of brilliant stars, covering the dark feet of the fishermen and transforming them into the mermen of children's stories.

He was brought back to reality when a good-natured African woman with a straw hat on her head offered him a slice of dripping mango from her cart to ward off the heat, which he ate with relish. She laughed, flashing teeth like ivory as he jumped to catch a trickle of bright juice running down his chin, and continued on, bracelets jangling.

A few men sitting on the stone breakwater called out to him;

"O menino não está com calor?"

"Está quente, não?"

Allen laughed stiffly, not knowing what to say. He waved and smiled, hoping that was a safe response. The men waved back.

He smiled, drifting off again as the sun beat down upon his head, and rounded another corner, glad of the shade that the buildings provided. This street was quieter than the rest, perhaps a back alley. Allen briefly remembered the ambassador's words and pulled off his left glove, ready to spring into action in case he was assaulted. He was so intent on looking behind him that he failed to notice the finely dressed young man that had appeared in front of him.

"Well, well. Fancy meeting you here. You look lost, exorcist."

Allen's blood seemed to turn to pins and needles (he marveled, a little, at the chill he felt despite the terrible heat) as he recognized the voice. He spun around, catching a glimpse of the smug face as he tried to attack, and then the blackness spilled across his vision and he felt himself fall.

A/N: OOOOH! THE INTRIGUE! THE GLAMOUR! Shall I continue? Please let me know if you want more!

PS: Translation for Portuguese in this chapter:

" O menino não está com calor?"—Is the boy not feeling hot?

"Está quente, não?"—It's hot out, isn't it?