“I don’t need to see them. I can read about them. Live the experience via the page from the comfort of my own domain. You ought to try it. Regain some of your tragically lost intelligence.”
“Thatsounds dreadful.”
“I would expect nothing less of the man whose idea of literature is a book of fornicating cartoon characters.”
Another chomp of apple. Another glare. “Were you always this fun?”
“Funis for humans. Frivolous humans who value frivolous things, because they don’t understand the simplest concept that every breath brings them one step closer to their inevitable end. That death is a process rather than an endpoint, and they’re already engaged in said process, dying bit by bit by bit. And now, I’m to take time frommyvery precious hours—immortal, but nevertheless precious—and homeschool a trio of teenagers who don’t know a demonic portal from the proverbial hole in the ground, and then—andthen!—convince them to transfer their vast and untapped power to?—”
“Hardly teenagers,” says Warren. “The youngest is twenty-six.”
“Oh! Thanks ever so much for clarifying, Warren. That handful of years makes aworldof difference. In fact, it’s changed my entire outlook on this mission.” I pace the aisle, my body buzzing with frustration. “Now I’m to abandon my work,travel topside, convince these barely-not-teenagers to transfer their ancestral power to Hell… am I the only one who sees what a terrible idea this is?”
“He wants the Bonnivarde Grimoire as well,” Warren says. “Forgot to add that crucial bit.”
“Of course he does. And how do you propose I manage that? Simply ask the girls to hand it over? A cherished and supremely powerful heirloom? The key to their magical legacy and peace between our realms for all eternity, passed across the table like a bit of salt? Give it here, girls, pay no attention to the ol’ demon behind the curtain?”
“You could always seduce them,” Warren suggests, a lecherous gleam shimmering in his eyes. “Turn on that academic charm. Ladies love a well-read man, Merri.”
“He’s too bloody awkward for seduction.” This helpful assessment from Oliver. “In your case, mate, I’d go straight for violence.”
“You? Advocating violence?” Warren laughs. “Now there’s a plot twist.”
“Notactualviolence. Just the threat of it. They’ll never expect it. They’ll be quivering at his every command.”
“In my experience, there’s more than one way to make a woman quiver.”
“True,” Oliver says, “but I still don’t think he’s cut out for the fine art of seduction. He’s far too literal. Threats are a more solid strategy, bar none.”
“And what is he to threaten them with?” Warren asks Oliver, the two of them hashing it out as if I’m no longer in the room. “Bludgeoning by encyclopedia? The wrath of a thousand bibliographies? A poetry reading from his graduate school days?”
“I saidthreatenthem,” Oliver says, laughing. “Not send them to an early grave! Where’s your compassion, mate?”
“On apracticallevel,” I say firmly, desperate to steer this conversational Hindenburg back to solid and relevant ground, “this task goes well beyond convincing the witches to give up control. Doing so is no simple matter. The spellcraft alone is delicate and complex, and they’ve only just learned that they’re witches. Decades of wasted opportunity and knowledge, all thanks to their mother’s selfishness, and I’m supposed to sweep in, win them over, and just… just flip the magical switch?”
“No one is saying it’s an easy task,” Warren says. “Only that it’s yours.”
“It’s shit, is what it is. Absolute shit.” I jab a finger into Warren’s chest. “You should’ve let me eat the pastries.”
“I’ll have Hattie bake you a fresh batch for the road.”
“Make sure she poisons them for me.”
“You done, mate?” Oliver asks.
“I honestly don’t know, Oliver. Perhaps not. For fuck’ssake.” I stomp to the end of the aisle. Remove my spectacles again. Polish anew. Replace them firmly upon my face. Stomp back.
The problem, in that tricky way of most problems you’d rather ignore, insists on remaining.
The black scroll burns in my pocket. My mates look at me with sympathy that could very easily inspire further hugging, if I allow it to continue unmitigated.
Reluctantly, I retrieveTorture and Tormentfrom the cart and replace it on the shelf, in its proper place, muttering a silent promise to return to it another day. Then, removing my gloves, finger by finger, I say calmly, “Since you both insist on standing about like a couple of wallflowers rejected at the dance while I’m left to pick up the pieces of yetanothercrisis, the least you could do is help.”
“Help unbunch the panties from your arse?” Warren asks. “Shall I fetch the baby oil and a crowbar?”
Gritting my teeth, I say, “Just bring me the damned Bonnivarde files before I decide to murder one and/or both of you, wait for you to respawn, and murder you again for the sheer sport of it. And yes, I can in fact accomplish such a monumental task before I embark upon my new assignment, because in addition to being smart and clever and endlessly resourceful, I’m also rabidly efficient.”
“That’sthe winning Merrick Sutherland spirit we all know and love,” says Oliver, chucking his apple core along the same arc as Warren’s pastry bag, where it lands unceremoniously on the floor beside its predecessor.
