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I scowled. “This isn’t funny, Sam. I need that book. People’s lives are in danger.” I kept the grimace on my face. What the hell did I even know, anyway? I still had no idea what Mammon had planned for the manuscript.
“I suppose it’s a matter of who finds it first, then,” Sam said, examining his nails. He gave me one last smile. “Until then, Dustin Graves, take care of yourself.”
“Wait,” I said, as the runes on his body began to pulse a brighter blue. I clenched my fists, ready to step into the Dark Room in case he was preparing to attack. “Who are you?”
Sam laughed again. “Your best friend, Dustin Graves.” His eyes shone electric blue. “Or your worst enemy.”
And for the third time since I met him, the thing that called itself Sam vanished.
Chapter 19
The grumbling from my stomach matched the unintelligible grumbling that streamed from my mouth as I stood in line at the Happy Cow. My hands were deep in the pockets of my jacket, the greasy air and oily floors of the burger joint doing nothing to sweeten my horrible mood. So not only was I scrambling to find the Tome for Mammon – I had competition, too.
I put in my order, nearly stumbling over myself when I muttered “The usual” to the gangly and somewhat pimply dude who usually took night shifts. He stared at me quizzically, and I realized I was still wearing someone else’s skin. Of course. I was a regular, but I was hidden by the glamour. He didn’t recognize me.
“Sorry,” I said, forcing on a smile. Just because I was in a different body didn’t mean I had to be rude about it. “Double cheeseburger, large fries, large onion rings.” And a diet soda – because it tastes great. Yes, I acknowledge my hypocrisy, stop laughing at me.
I slunk off to a corner table, then moaned as I took the first bite of my double cheese, instantly forgetting why I was in such a foul mood. This had to be the reason they called it the Happy Cow, right? Either those patties were treated with antidepressants or they really were just the best burgers I’d ever tasted.
Without pausing for breath I alternated between shoving fries and onion rings down my throat. I savored the opportunity, pretending that I wasn’t totally ruining my body because I was still in my twenties. I knew I still had the youth and strength to recover from a cholesterol-laden fast food death-binge. I could worry about treating my body like a temple in my forties. For now I’m content to treat it like a public toilet.
As I reached for the last clump of my fries, I noticed that they were giving me some resistance. Which is so not cool, especially when you’re aware of the existence of magic, because sure, getting poisoned is bad, but have you ever heard of cursed food? That shit goes down your throat then swells up three times in size, choking you out from the inside. Imagine choking to death on a cursed hotdog. I don’t know if I could imagine a more unglamorous way to die.
I dropped the fries, one hand clutching at my stomach, and I briefly considered running to the bathroom to, um, relieve myself of the hypothetically cursed dinner I’d just eaten. But the fries were still moving, and as they shifted about in their little fry-box, I peered in to check why.
“Scrimshaw,” I growled, watching as the little imp nibbled at a fry like he was a wood chipper. He ignored me, stuffing his gob full of ill-gotten potatoes, burning through my leftover fries with alarming speed. For reference, imagine a man speed-eating a baguette. I mean really going to town on it, finishing off that sucker in half a minute flat. That’s how horribly Scrimshaw was violating my fries.
I sipped on my soda, slurping through the straw noisily, waiting for the imp to notice that I’d already spotted him ankle-deep in my food. When he didn’t, I cleared my throat. He stopped mid-nibble, then looked up at me sheepishly, grinning with his mouth full.
“Hi,” he said, waving meekly with a tiny, clawed hand. Somehow not so unfriendly anymore, or at least not as cantankerous as the last, and technically, first time I saw him. “Nice hair,” he added, stifling a giggle. Either Scrimshaw knew how to find me by the scent of my blood, or he could see through my glamour, too. I guess both.
“Yes,” I said, patting self-consciously at my head of fake hair. “Hello.”
“Um.” He pointed at the rest of my onion rings. “You gonna eat that?”
I sighed and nudged the carton over. “Knock yourself out.”
The demon’s eyes lit up, and he dove into the mass of fried onions, sharp little teeth gnawing at the breaded coating of one particularly anemic ring.
“Could you settle down?” I hissed. “Someone could see you.”
Scrimshaw wiped his little hand across the back of his mouth. “Actually, normals can’t see me. Not unless I want them to. So that lady over there, and that kid in that booth?”
I turned to follow where Scrimshaw pointed.
“They think you’re some crazy person because you’re talking to a box of onion rings.”
“Fuck,” I muttered, pulling out my earphones and plugging them in. At least then I’d look like I was on a phone call. “Damn it, Scrimshaw, you should have told me.”
“Was busy,” he said, attacking his third onion ring. Had he not eaten in, I don’t know, centuries? It was terrifying, and kind of pitiful, if I’m honest.
“So,” I said. “About the Tome of Annihilation.”
He stopped mid-nibble once more, his eyes turning towards me slowly. “Uh, yeah,” Scrimshaw said. “About that. I think I’ve narrowed it down.” He set down his half-eaten ring, then turned to face me fully, his head raised, his little chest puffed out. “I’ve determined that the Tome of Annihilation is somewhere here in Valero.”
My jaw fell open. I had to stop myself from crushing my soda cup and spilling its contents all over my pants. Fucking demons, man. I should have known better.
“I gave you ten drams – and I still don’t know what a dram is – of my blood, and I gave your master three hundred bucks, and you’re telling me shit that I already know?”
