“Horns and tail weren’t enough for you?”
“To distinguish you from a lawyer?”
“Hmm. Fair point.”
At this, the little witch laughs. It lights up her entire face. I’m not sure what she finds so amusing, only that I find my own mouth curving at the corners in response.
Disastrous.
“ThankGodyou’re just a demon,” she says.
“Oh, He’s not the one who sent me. Doesn’t like to meddle in the affairs of demons and witches. Not since the Obsidian Wars, some millennia ago. Long before your time.”
She laughs again, apparently comforted by the fact that I’m a creature of darkness who’s just emerged from the depths of Hell instead of a legal professional. Or a Godsend, for that matter.
Humans. I didn’t understand them when Iwasone. Now? I’ve no hope of it.
“All things considered, you’re taking this rather well.” I seem to recall a lot more screaming and gnashing of teeth upon my last trip up north. I’m not sure whether to be offended that she wasn’t more frightened by my demonic appearance. No, I don’t like to whip it out on a first meeting, but when it happens, I expect a reaction.
Not necessarily a candlestick-to-the-balls sort of reaction, but still.Something.
“Hate to break it to you, my guy,” she says with a casual flip of her hair. “But you’re not the weirdest thing I’ve experienced tonight.”
Not the weirdest.Well, that’s something, I suppose.
“Wait… did Isummonyou?” Her eyes gleam at the prospect, that smile undimmed.
It’s a shame I’m going to have to dim it. “As I said, I was sent. Summoning is an advanced magical technique. One that goes hand-in-hand with binding, which is how witches can channel more power from demonic energies. All in your lesson plan, should you chose to accept my tutelage.”
“Are you saying any old demon can just waltz in here without being summoned?”
“I’m hardly any old demon. I’m a twelfth-level scholar of Hell reporting directly to the Council. My colleagues and I are the only demons who can use summoning portals without witch intervention, aside from chaos demons under unfavorable circumstances, and you’d better hope you never have to deal with one of them.”
Though, judging from the ease with which I was able to travel, the portal is not in great shape. I’m not sure it’s ever gone this long without rigorous magical maintenance; none of the guardians has ever died without a trained heir.
Her shoulders sag, but only a fraction. Then, alight once more, she says, “So. Magic is real. I’m a witch. Demons are a thing, obviously. What else have I been missing out on? Oh! Have you ever heard of people turning into bats? I don’t mean, like, vampires. I mean actual bats.” She makes an abhorrent squeaking sound and flutters her hands like a wounded bird.
I wait until her performance comes to a close before asking the key question. “Are you, perchance, under the influence?”
“No! Well, maybe a little. But that’s not the point! Okay, today started out atotaldisaster—turd topper on a weeklongshitfest—and I needed a few drinks to reset. Survival mode engaged, right? So I’m on the airplane, and then…”
She prattles on about her travels and travails, one word breathlessly crashing into the next until I’m no longer sure what language she’s even speaking. There’s something about a kitchen countertop rendezvous, the death of her mother, peppermint schnapps, forgotten marijuana…
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I shift my attention to more pressing matters: the summoning of my supplies and the assessment of our training space. I don’t recall the Bonnivarde portal location being so grim. No natural light. No humidity control to ward off the inevitable moldering of my precious texts. The mushrooms are a bit concerning as well. Indoors, when they should be out. Mischievous, those creatures. Never trust a mushroom, that’s my personal motto.
At least it’s relatively tidy, for what it is. Plenty of shelf space, well-stocked with the basic ingredients for spellcraft. I’ll need to summon a typewriter for my pupil’s written assignments, however. Handwriting is always preferred, but I’ve already discerned this witch is the type to incorporate hearts or flowers into her lettering—a crime against the sacred act of writing I cannotcondone.
By the time the witch pauses to catch her breath, most of my books and classroom tools have arrived. Before I left Hell, Warren took the liberty of sending my personal effects to a small cottage in town, the existence of which I have yet to confirm, but he assured me it’s nearby, hidden from mortal human view. More witchcraft—likely her mother’s. I’m sure it’s charming. Alas, I’m not here to enjoy a holiday. I’m here to accomplish the mission: train the Bonnivarde three, shore up the portal, convince them to transfer power, collect the grimoire, and return to my beloved archival work, redepositing the humanrealm into the Land of Forgotten Eras. With any luck, I can wrap this up in time to?—
“What’s all this?” Her question startles me from my mental wanderings.
I glance up, finding her pawing through one of my books.
“Put that down!” I nearly shout. Then, in a softer tone, “Please. Never touch or move or breathe on my possessions without express permission.” I remove the book from her hands—Percy’sThe Transcendence of Ritual Sacrifice—and place it back in its crate. Why everyoneinsistson fondling my literature without consent is beyond me.
Seemingly unfazed, she crosses her arms over her chest and eyes up the crate. “Do you actually expect me to read this stuff?”
