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they have a fighting chance in whatever new world order the Eldest establish.”
“There won’t be one,” I muttered. “It’ll just be chaos.”
“Aha,” Carver said, triumphant. “You see?”
I flung my hands up. “Fine. We’ll give him the first line of the spell. Surely that’s enough to compare. And that way we won’t be handing over the entire ritual to the infernals.” I coughed softly. “No offense meant, Scrimshaw.”
He nodded, unperturbed, from his perch on the paper plate. “None taken.”
“That might work,” Carver said. “Very well. I shall transcribe the correct words.”
He lifted his hands, fingers wreathed with pale fire. The flames vanished, leaving an inked quill in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other. Style. See, that’s why I work for the man. He stooped over our coffee table and started scribbling away.
“So,” I said to Scrimshaw. “We don’t have to get your wizard boss involved in this, do we? This can just be between us.”
Scrimshaw was a wizard’s familiar, after all. It wasn’t common to find imps of his specific class and caliber wandering free in the world. Word-eaters had to be contracted from hell’s libraries and government offices, the only places in the known universe more infuriating than the local DMV.
“Oh, old Nicodemus doesn’t need to know,” Scrimshaw said, waving his hand dismissively. “I won’t tell if you won’t. And tell you what, I do realize that I kind of screwed you over with our previous contract.” He ground one foot sheepishly into the paper plate. “I could have been more specific. I’ll give you a better deal this time around.”
I frowned and raised a finger. “No games, Scrimshaw.”
He raised his hands. “Hey. No games. All it’ll cost is twenty drams of blood.”
“Done,” I said, rolling up my jacket.
“From each of you.”
“What?”
Asher moved forward, pulling back the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Go for it,” he said. “But maybe draw from the inside of my elbow? I don’t really want any visible bite marks.”
“What?” Sterling shouted. “No fair. How come he gets to drink from everyone?” He smacked Asher on the shoulder. “And you. Traitor. I never get to drink from you, and now this?”
“Quit whining,” Asher said, his ears going red. And then, softly, he added: “Maybe later.”
Sterling shut up immediately, a pleased, if surprised little smile sealing his lips.
In the end, he didn’t have to give any blood to Scrimshaw after all. It just wasn’t how things worked between demons and vampires, I guess. Carver laughed when I told him it was his turn. I kind of spaced on that. He didn’t have any blood in his system at all. Period. Whatever kept his husk going certainly didn’t qualify as anything organic.
So Scrimshaw took his payment from me, and Gil, and Asher. He said the same thing he did about my blood as the first time: like wine from a gas station. Gil growled in a convincingly predatory manner when Scrimshaw described his blood as gamy. No complaints, unsurprisingly, when it came to Asher’s blood.
“Like champagne,” Scrimshaw said, kissing the tips of his fingers with exaggerated relish. “Delicious.”
Asher blushed, pressing a wad of paper towels against his inner elbow. “Thanks. I guess.”
“Okay now,” I grumbled. “That’s enough.”
“And I mean real champagne,” Scrimshaw added. “Not that Italian sparkling stuff. The real thing. From the source.”
“Okay, we get it,” I snarled. “Go find the people who cast this damn spell already.”
“Right,” Scrimshaw said, somehow managing to carry the entire paper plate loaded with leftovers over his head. “Here I go.”
“Um, Do you want us to keep those for you?” Trust Asher to be as helpful as ever. “We can pop them back in the microwave once you’re done, or – ”
“No need,” Scrimshaw grunted, straining under the weight of all his food. “It won’t take long for me to demolish this.”
I elbowed Asher in the ribs. “He’s not kidding,” I whispered. “I’ve seen what he can do.”
