“Special order.”
“Really. And what, pray tell, did you offer in return?”
“Nothing much. Told her she could drop by later, give you a fondle.”
“Youwhat?”
“She’s quite good, Merri. Give it a go, you might even like it.”
Against all that is holy, I shove the bag back at him, pastries untouched. The demoness Hattie doesn’t provide baked goodsorfondling out of the kindness of her stone-cold heart, and neither does my best mate. Which means he’s easing the passage for some other dreadful request.
I can only imagine what. Last time I accepted one of Warren’s pastry gifts, I found myself dog-sitting his hellhound for two straight weeks while he and Oliver gallivanted through the lower realms in search of the famed three-breasted sorceress. By the time they returned, I was nearly mummified in a semi-solid carapace of mutt hair and drool. And I’m not sure they found the sorceress, either.
“Spoilsport.” He rolls his eyes, fanning himself withTorture and Torment.
I snatch the book from his grip and place it on my cart, barely resisting the urge to utter an apology. To the book, not to the demon. Obviously.
“And what’s this week’s fascinating research topic?” he asks, digging into the croissants himself. “Boning up on torture techniques, are we? Ollie will be pleased. Important to stay sharp, he always says.”
“Still archiving, I’m afraid. No time for research at the moment.” A lie, but a necessary one. If he knew the real subject of my work—the real reason I campaigned so hard to be assigned these long and lifeless hours in Hell’s most neglected archives—he’d only try to talk me out of it. Then, realizing dissuading me was a fool’s errand, he’d insist upon helping.
Way too risky a proposition forbothof us.
Through a mouth full of croissant, he says, “You haven’t heard, then.”
“Nor do I particularly care to, but you’re obviously bursting at the seams.” A great sigh escapes. “You and your blackmail pastries. I knew this wasn’t a simple kindness.”
“Merri! I’m wounded.”
“Out with it, Warren. I’ve work to do.”
He licks the last bit of melted chocolate from his fingertips and grins, arching a mischievous eyebrow. “The Bonnivarde Witches.”
“What of them?”
“The heirs have returned to Graves Hollow. All three.”
“Oh?” A frisson of academic curiosity unfurls in my chest. “Evelyn Bonnivarde has expired?”
He glares at me as if I’ve sprouted another head—totally unfair; it’s been at least forty years since that particular mishap. “You know, Merri, it wouldn’t kill you to emerge from the stacks once in a while. Catch up on the news. Socialize a bit.”
“You do recall we died at a party, right?”
“Your capacity for grudge-holding is admirable.”
“It was your idea.”
“It was more than a century ago.”
“You quite literally dragged me out of the library to—and I quote— ‘socialize a bit,’ and the next thing I knew, we were whisked off to Hell and?—”
“Evelyn’s been dead for over a week, mate. And that’s hardly the worst of it.” He puts an arm around me—an alarming gesture. He knows my displeasure of touch, and typically respects that boundary. For him to overlook it means he’s distracted. Upset, even, beneath all the good humor and fine suits and baked goods.
Bleeding skies. Whatever urgency has brought him down to the archives to seek me out, I’m surely going to hate it.
“You’re going to hate this,” he says.
“Clearly.”
