“Are you bloodykiddingme?” I demand.
“It’s not forever, Merri.” He tries for cheerful. Fails. “Just a few months for you to get them up to speed and?—”
“No. No, there’s been a mistake. I’m not qualified to teach witchcraft. I’m not qualified to interact with humans. Ergo, I’m not qualified to teach witchcraft to humans or renegotiate delicate magical contracts with humans or really to be in the presence of humans in any capacity whatsoever.” Panic claws itsway up my throat. I haven’t been to the surface in well over half a century, and the last trip wasn’t what you’d call exemplary.
“Matthias seems to think otherwise. He?—”
“Not to mention my work, Warren. I’ve only just completed theAs. In English, besides! Never mind the other letters and languages, both ancient and alive, human and demonic… the translations alone will take decades. Every book and scroll must be evaluated for reconstruction, for cleaning, for rebinding… Just thinking about it is enough to make the head spin. The archives are vast and ancient and nearly unknowable, and they simply cannot maintain themselves, and… and… and?—”
“Andgiven your extensive knowledge of all things occult and esoteric, including the original treaties and all relevant accords and addendums, you are in fact themostqualified among us. By far.”
“What about… Bill! Yes, Bill. Very knowledgeable chap. Good with maths.”
“From Accounting? They’re in budget meetings all month, and anyway, Bill is terrible with people. Well, more terrible than you, which is certainly saying something.”
“Warren—”
“It’s done.” From his suit coat pocket, Warren retrieves the scroll—embossed black parchment sealed with Mathias’s double wax sigil, two silver serpents coiled around a golden flame.
The last of my hope flickers and dies.
It’s official, then. A direct order from the ruler of Hell.
I’ve half a mind to pitch it into the fireplace, but what a crime to waste such elegant parchment. The back side is blank, still usable. Excellent. It will make a fine suicide note. I slide it into my pocket for safekeeping, optimist that I am.
“No way round it, I’m afraid,” Warren says, as if he can read my morbid thoughts.
He’s right. Not even death would get me out of this mess. Whatever Mathias and the Council of Underworld Interests decide, we are bound to deliver. That’s just how it works.
“No way round what?” Oliver appears at the end of the row, jauntily crunching on an apple. Flopped open in his other hand, some sort of comic book shines in the dim—lewd, judging from the flesh-to-text ratio.
“How many times have I said it?” I snap. “No food or beverages or pornography in the library.”
“Stop being such a snob,” he says. “All stories have value, Merrick. One of your sayings, I believe.”
“Oh?” I snatch the comic from him, give it a cursory glance. “And what value is being offered by the story of two pierced cocks sliding between a pair of cartoon breasts?”
“Three cocks, if you look under the sheet there.” Oliver snatches it back with a laugh. “Since you’re so interested in discussing its literary merits… I’ve studied it rather extensively, and I feel it’s all an elaborate metaphor for?—”
“You went to Oxford, for fuck’s sake. At leastpretendto have a modicum of class.”
“Speaking of pierced dicks, any particular reason you’re acting like one?” He bites the apple and chomps, mouth open, right in my face. “Sorry. Was that question unclassy?”
“Got his knickers in a twist about the assignment,” Warren says, taking the comic off Oliver’s hands.
“Ah. You’ve let the cat out of the bag, then.”
“Someone had to, you bleeding coward.”
“Excellent.” I shove past them with my cart and scan the shelves for the next B-authored book, as if I might return to my work and magically rid myself of this dreadful conversation and assignment. “Now that we’ve established I’m once again the last to know the most important details of my own petty existence?—”
“Speaking of metaphors,” says Oliver, with an eye roll I can practically hear. “Stop pouting, mate. A trip up north will do you good. Fresh air, birds.”
“Humanity,” says Warren.
I sigh again. “Sounds dreadful.”
Oliver leans against the bookshelf and glares at the side of my face. His breath smells of apples and debauchery—his signature scent. “When was the last time you saw any of those things?”
