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“Old friends,” Scrimshaw said warmly, his gaze settling on me. “And some new faces, too. What can wee Scrimshaw do for you?”
“Nice touch with the rhyming,” I said, getting down on my haunches.
See, it’s always good to speak to someone on their level. I didn’t want to remind Scrimshaw of our difference in size. It was, in a weird kind of way, a show of respect, which was always important when it came to communions and forging spiritual contracts.
“We need something big from you,” I said. “Huge. A huge, big old favor.”
Scrimshaw’s gaze flitted around the room, his eyes filling with concern, and suspicion. “And – and what does this favor entail, exactly?”
Asher knelt down next to me, speaking in as friendly a voice as he could muster. “We need you to steal a sword from a demon prince.”
Good thing I’d gotten on my knees, because it meant that I had time to grab Scrimshaw by the waist before he could get away. “I should’ve known something was off when I saw all the food you prepared for me. I should have known!” He kicked and spat and screeched, his skin burning like a metal teapot in my hand, but I persisted.
“We just want to talk,” Asher said. “If you can’t help us steal something, then we just want to talk. If you won’t do this for us, then at least tell us what we can do. Tell us which of the princes we should target.”
I placed Scrimshaw gently down on his mountain of leftovers, holding my hands out as a show of trust, then backed away from the circle. His gaze shifted from one face to another, then fell on his feast of baguettes and sausages. His eyes widened, his little hands wringing together as his little brain ran through his prospects. Something clicked in his face just then, as if he realized that he didn’t have to put himself in danger, after all.
“We just need information, old buddy,” I said, softly. “Just information, and you can have all the food you want.”
Scrimshaw ran one hand across his brow, sweeping away the metallic sheen of sweat that had formed there. His little belly inflated as he drew in a deep breath, then sighed.
“Belphegor. You want Belphegor.”
Chapter 10
Pages and pages of ancient parchment rustled as Carver magically flipped through the dusty tome floating between his fingers.
“Belphegor,” he repeated. “The demon prince of sloth.”
“That’s the one,” Scrimshaw sniffed. “You didn’t have to go and verify it. I’m not gonna pull one over on you guys.”
The tome snapped shut, then disappeared in a plume of amber fire. Carver smiled sweetly at the imp, an uncharacteristic expression coming from him.
“You know better than I do, dear friend, that history’s demonologists have argued and clashed over which of the princes represent each of the seven deadly sins.”
Scrimshaw nodded, pawing at a mound of scrambled eggs. “That’s a good point. Nobody can ever make up their damn minds.” He shoveled two tiny handfuls of scrambled eggs into his face, chewing noisily. “And it’s all so political, actually. Sometimes someone else takes the post. Well, not for very long, really. Just until they get killed.”
Mason smoothed down his jeans as he took a spot on the floor, sitting just inches away from Scrimshaw and his disgusting throne of flaming leftovers.
“So why Belphegor, exactly?” he said, his face open with curiosity, and the kind of reserved, intelligent charm he sometimes whipped out when it felt convenient. “What makes them different?”
“Put it this way,” Scrimshaw said, munching. “If you’re thinking of stealing from one of the princes, there’s no way in all the hells that you’d want to go up against someone like, say, wrath, or pride. That’s just asking to be put into a world of pain.”
Asher nudged me in the ribs. “I like him. He’s very sensible, for a demon.”
Scrimshaw’s little chest puffed up with pride. “I really am. Thank you. But back to my point: sloth is possibly the least dangerous of the seven princes, mainly because they aren’t quite as temperamental or as vengeful as the other six.”
Gil nodded, then grunted as he stepped closer to the circle, eyeing me pointedly. “And let’s not forget how much Mammon is still nursing a hate-boner for Dustin.”
I held my hands up, eyes wide with annoyance. “What, just me? Really? I’m pretty sure Mammon hates all of us. Especially Banjo, who, let’s not forget, exploded Mammon all over the Boneyard with a single bark.” I winked at Banjo. “No offense, little buddy.”
Banjo angled his head up at me. “Arf.”
“If the demon prince of greed has lingering grievances with Daddy’s Little Murderer, then they can take it up with me.” Carver poked a thumb at his own chest. “Daddy.”
I stifled a laugh, but Carver looked completely serious, his chin lifted in open defiance.
“Right,” Sterling said, grunting impatiently, one hand still over his nose and mouth. “So, about this Belphegor. You’re suggesting we find a way into sloth’s hell, then steal a sword right out from under their nose? What kind of idiot just waltzes into a prince’s kingdom?”
