Chapter Five
At midnight, the letter was finally done. Milo sighed in relief. After seemingly endless discussions during which he and Dre had been banned to the peanut gallery, two trips to Quirion’s library, one to Japan and another to Bavaria to get more, and different, paper, the letter lay on the table, written in Sammy’s beautiful calligraphy, the ink the perfect shade of bluish black—according to Quirion and Sammy—Milo and Dre were convinced simply using ink from the next stationery shop would have been sufficient, but they knew better than to even utter word in that regard—the letter was done. All Milo had to do now was sign it before they would put it into the envelope and place it in the post office. He eyed the paper warily.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Of course! You need to sign it, otherwise this Beverly woman might think it isn’t from you.” Sammy nudged him closer to the table.
“I think she’ll think that anyway, because I’m a scientist and we are not known for our prowess with quill and ink.” Milo could feel his doubts mounting. “What if she dismisses the letter because I’ve clearly done it with help?”
Quirion put a hand on Milo’s shoulder, the heat from that point of contact shooting directly into his groin, though by now he was used to the effect the demon had on him and was able to not embarrass himself. “I can understand your worries, Milo, but trust me. I know Beverly. Yes, she will know it wasn’t you who wrote the letter, but she will see the effort you put into it. Plus, she’s going to be curious how you managed to meet her expectations so perfectly. I can guarantee she’ll want to meet you.”
Milo took another hesitant step, eyeing the quill Sammy was holding out to him.
“And if they really drop you, because, you know, they don’t like being outdone by a mere scientist, there’s other funding to be had.” Dre sounded matter-of-fact, which didn’t help Milo’s nerves at all. But he had to get home and back to Massachusetts because he had classes to teach tomorrow, or rather, later today, and Quirion wouldn’t bring him unless the letter was finished. He grabbed the quill.
“Don’t listen to him, Milo. My brother has no idea how the minds of people like Beverly Nyx work. You’re much better off listening to me.”
Knowing there was no escape no matter what he might want or not, Milo dipped the tip of the quill into the ink, put it on the paper and signed with a scratching sound, because apparently even holding a damn quill was a lot more complicated than Sammy and Quirion made it look.
“Well done!” Quirion beamed, Sammy clapped his hands, and Dre made a face telegraphing how much he, too, wanted this evening to be over. Milo eyed the chicken scratch that was his signature. Yeah, no way Beverly Nyx is going to think I wrote that letter.
Then Sammy brought a candle and sealing wax, a nice light blue that had no deeper meaning at all, according to Quirion. The letter was sealed and an equally neutral sigil—a pattern that reminded Milo a bit of a triskelion—was pressed into the cooling wax. Milo pocketed the letter, thanked Sammy for his help and Dre for his hospitality, earning a delighted hug from the former and a dramatic eyeroll from the latter, so business as usual, and snuggled up to Quirion when his demon opened space and time to bring him first back to the little house he shared with his mother in Beaconville, then to take him to his apartment close to the campus of MIT. As free days went, this one had been a bit more hectic than Milo would have preferred, but he’d gotten to spend it with his favorite demon and the man he viewed as an older brother and best friend in one, so it wasn’t that bad.
* * * *
The following week was stressful. Milo had a minor breakthrough in his research when he realized his experimental nanobots were exhibiting behavioral patterns known from bees and ants. The next logical step was to create the equivalent of a queen to direct the bots, which was where the breakthrough hit another wall, because the bots refused to acknowledge the computer as their queen. Milo was reading up on the latest studies about social insects, hoping to find a clue how to proceed, when the door to his lab was yanked open by none other than Devon Merrybone, useless son of one of the not-so-useless main donors for MIT.
“Abber, I see you’re still clinging to that dead-end research of yours.”
“Merrybone, I see you’re still not researching anything at all.”
Devon had been a thorn in Milo’s side from day one at MIT. With the unerring instincts of a true bully, the guy had sniffed out Milo’s weak self-esteem and had made derogating comments whenever he came near him. If it hadn’t been for Quirion and Sammy, who had built Milo up time and again when he was on the verge of simply giving up, he wouldn’t be sitting in his own lab now. With time he had learned that Devon’s treatment of him got worse the more successful he was, so he had had an additional motivator to outshine all his fellow students. Every time he left Devon in the dust—which wasn’t that hard, considering the man preferred partying to studying any time of the day—his fellow student and now colleague became more obnoxious. And even though his bark sometimes still hurt, the knowledge how envious Devon was of Milo and his success was like a balm on said injuries.
Now, too, his features turned into an angry grimace before he managed to get them back under control.
“Well, the difference is, my research is going to kick off come the next semester while yours is going to shrivel up and die. I just got confirmation that my expedition to the Bahamas has been green-lighted, which means most of your funding is gone.” A malevolent smile appeared on Devon’s admittedly handsome face. He looked like the typical all-American football hero, all blond hair, blue eyes, and impressive muscles—for a human. Milo knew what real muscles looked like, so he had stopped being impressed by jocks before he even met Devon.
And since the man wasn’t telling him anything Milo didn’t know already—although he did admit it still stung, knowing the university valued his work so little—he managed to keep a neutral face.
“Most of my funding from MIT, you mean.” Even though he hadn’t received confirmation that he was on the list for possible funding by SBW, he couldn’t resist placing this little barb. It might be petty, and beneath him, Sammy would most certainly argue along these lines, but Quirion, Dre, Declan and Troy would most definitely give him a slap on the shoulder and tell him to enjoy his thrills where he could get them.
Devon stared at him open-mouthed, amping Milo’s thrill way up into the stratosphere. The paranormal apex predators definitely knew what they were talking about.
“What…what do you mean, funding from MIT? Do you have other sources? I never heard about it!” He sounded so indignant about the fact, Milo did nothing to hold in his condescending chuckle.
“Why would you? My research is dead-end, remember? Not interesting at all. And since it doesn’t come from MIT, your daddy wouldn’t know about it anyway.”
Another little barb Milo fired off with delight. As much as Devon relied on his father to get a leg up in the world of science—or perhaps because —he hated it when his connections were mentioned, even though it was obvious to everybody on campus why he had gotten an offer to research and teach at all. Spoiler, it wasn’t his scientific acumen that had earned him the honor.
“You have funding you didn’t declare to MIT?” Between the sputtering and indignance, there was a spark of glee. Devon no doubt hoped to compromise Milo.
“Who said I didn’t declare it? It’s confidential, so the dean kept it that way.” This was definitely stretching the truth, to the point where it was as transparent as the dough for a Viennese Apfelstrudel and in danger of ripping at any moment. Though if there was one thing Milo had learned from the supernatural creatures he spent most of his time with, it was that living on the edge was always worth it. At least in hindsight, after a few years had passed, the dust had settled, and the buildings were rebuilt. Enjoying the sheer outrage on Devon’s face because there were things not even his daddy’s money could make him privy to, was definitely already worth it, even if Milo might have to avoid the man if he didn’t get the funding from SBW before Devon went off to the Bahamas.
“I don’t believe you! There’s no way, no way , anybody would waste money on your stupid ideas!” Devon was poking holes into the air a few inches from Milo’s face. Careful testing had shown he wouldn’t come closer, physical violence apparently the one line he never crossed, the only redeeming quality Milo could see in the blubbering idiot.
“You don’t even know what my stupid ideas are about! So how would you determine if anybody saw them as promising!”
Devon’s mouth opened and closed a few times. He was clearly at a loss for words, which didn’t happen often. Milo savored the silence, which was only sweetly enhanced by the gurgling sounds coming from his nemesis’ throat. Sadly, he regained his speech all too quick. “Fine, then I won’t ask you to come to the Bahamas with me to do some research there.” He turned on his heel and marched out of the lab, slamming the door closed, and leaving Milo completely stunned.
“What just happened?”
* * * *
The next day brought a small measure of relief because Milo’s mother called, telling him there was an official-looking letter with a wax seal in the mail.
“Can you open it for me, Mom?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. It looks so important.” His mother was hesitant, and Milo understood. Her illness had come not only with countless visits to doctors, so many different medicines Milo’s head still spun just thinking about them, and serious effects on her daily life because she was often too tired to get up, but also with a flood of official-looking letters which rarely contained anything good. Even more than her son, she had started dreading those letters.
“This is the good kind of official, I think. It tells me if I have a chance at funding.”
“And if it says you don’t? Then it’s not a good letter.”
Milo had to give it to his mom, her logic was sound, though not entirely appreciated at the moment.
“Yes, I’d be sad if it says I won’t get it, but if it says I have a chance, I’d be very happy, and I could use some happy today.”
“Oh, sweetie, is that Devon boy harassing you again? Or is it your research? Are the wee ones not playing along?”
To his mother, his nanobots were the wee ones. Milo didn’t know how she had come up with the term because they had not a drop of Scottish blood in their family. He suspected it had come from one of her romance novels. She had an entire series with strapping men in kilts on the covers.
“The wee ones are a bit obstinate, and Devon has been an ass, though different than usual and yes, good news would be nice.”
“Fine, I’ll open it.”
Milo heard paper tearing. A moment’s silence, followed by a soft gasp. Milo’s heart sank.
“Oh.”
His heart sank further. “Mom?”
“Uhm, it’s a bit…elaborate, this letter.”
“Mom! Is it good or bad?”
“Good, I think. Wait, I’ll read it to you.” She cleared her throat. “Dear Dr. Abber—how nice, they’re addressing you with your title. I’m so proud of you, Milo, or should I say Dr. Abber ?”
The smile evident in his mother’s voice was the only thing keeping Milo from barking at her. His nerves were as tight as piano wires, and he felt his stomach gurgling in warning.
Perhaps she felt his impatience through the connection, because his mother kept on reading. “ Dear Dr. Abber, we are very pleased to inform you that our board members have decided to include you in our list of potential candidates for funding. You will now start the process of submittance for which you will have three weeks’ time. Once we have the documents of all candidates, the first round of screening will begin. You can expect information about your passing or lack thereof ten days after you submitted everything. All further information is attached to the email that will be sent out shortly. We congratulate you on successfully entering the first round of our in-depths tests to determine worthy recipients for our invaluable support. Most sincerely, Beverly Nyx, founding member of SBW .
“Wow, Milo. This is good news, isn’t it?” His mother’s excited tone distracted Milo from the snootiness of the letter.
“Yes, Mom, that’s very good news. Thank you for reading the letter to me. I think I’ll better start working on those papers they’re asking for.”
“Yes, you do that, my smart boy. Good luck! Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.” Milo listened as his mother disconnected the call. Then he immediately went to his personal laptop which was next to his PC on the cluttered desk in his lab. He was still researching social insects and their behavioral patterns, learning all kinds of fascinating things, though nothing that sparked an idea how to tackle the communicational issues in his nanobots. He had indeed an email from the SBW, not nearly as aloof as the letter from Beverly Nyx, but terrifying in its own way. The list of things they wanted, within three weeks to boot, was extensive. While Milo scrolled through the list, he called Quirion on his phone.
As always, the demon answered immediately. As loudly as he had protested the smartphone after Milo had brought up the idea of him having his own, and Dre and Barion buying him one just to piss him off, Quirion now used the thing with a naturalness that made Milo a bit jealous. He admired how the demon could adapt so easily to everything thrown at him.
“Milo! How are you doing today?”
“We did it, Qui, I’m in the next round for the funding!”
“Excellent, Milo! I’m so happy for you. Now, tell me what the next steps are.”
At moments like this, Milo was insanely grateful for Quirion’s friendship. He never had to ask for anything, the demon simply offered, as if he knew exactly what Milo needed and when. “There’s a list of things I have to submit, and I have to admit, it’s rather intimidating.”
“Say no more.” There was a moment of static, some crackling as if the smartphone was forced to its limits and beyond, then Quirion’s voice sounded directly behind him. “Let’s tackle this list.”
Milo looked from his own phone to the huge demon crowding his lab. “How did you know I’m here?”
Quirion lifted a scaly eyebrow. “Simple deduction. It’s not yet lunchtime on a weekday. Where else would you be?”
“Teaching, in a conference, on the toilet, student consultation, to name just a few.”
“You would never phone me during a student consultation, which you always hold on Fridays anyway. If you’d been on the toilet, I would have heard the echo plus you tend to play Mahjong during your defecation and wouldn’t have thought to call me while doing so.”
Milo turned beet red. Sometimes he forgot how little Quirion cared for modesty or politeness and how thorough he was in his observations of his surroundings and the people in it. Seemingly not noticing Milo’s mini meltdown over the mentioning of his bathroom habits, the demon carried on.
“You hate conferences with a passion, they’re usually closer to the end of semester than you currently are, and you always try to wiggle out of them. You teach Wednesday through Friday morning, today it’s Tuesday, which is lab-day for you. Also, I might have put one of those tracking apps on your phone to be able to get to you whenever necessary.”
“You know my teaching schedule? And you have a tracking app on my cell? When did you do that?”
“Of course, I know your schedule. You’re my assistant.” Quirion made it sound like the most logical thing in the world. “The tracking app I installed shortly after I got my own smartphone. Dre told me he had one for Sammy and how much better he felt always knowing where his mate is. I gave the idea some thought, contemplated the wisdom of encroaching on your personal freedom and privacy like that, read up on a few human philosophers as well as supernatural ones and decided your safety has priority over any and all objections you might have on the matter.”
With anybody else, Milo would have been enraged. Livid. With Quirion, he could see it as the loving gesture it was. It also helped to know that the demon would never use the app to control him. For Quirion it really was all about Milo’s safety, just like he had stated. Milo could accept that, despite the reservations he should have according to the tiny voice at the back of his mind.
“Okay. We might have to revisit this thought-process at a later time, but at the moment I’m just glad you’re here to help me.”
“Help you with what, Abber?”
Milo whirled around at the sound of Devon’s voice. Quirion didn’t turn at all, he was too busy retracting his claws and fangs. Never sneak up on a demon! Well, never sneak up on a paranormal in general. That was the very first rule for humans to keep their innards where they belonged. Devon didn’t know about demons and other paranormal creatures and thus was happily oblivious to how narrowly he had just avoided researching the fauna and flora of the next realm from this moment forward.
“Again, Abber, help you with what? And who is this guy anyway? Never seen him before.” Devon’s tone made it more than clear how utterly ignorant he was of his lucky escape.
Before Milo had a chance to think about how to get rid of Devon without bloodshed, Quirion turned. To Milo, he still looked like his very gorgeous demonic self, with sheathed claws and fangs, of course, scales not showing. On Devon he must have made quite the impression, because Milo’s nemesis was trying to get his jaw back up from the floor. There was also drool in the corners of his mouth. Perhaps Devon isn’t such a strait-laced jock after all.
“Milo, who is this?” Quirion’s rumble was just this side of polite, with the very real potential of going hostile at a moment’s notice. Defusing the situation became a priority. His demon could be just as visceral with words as with his claws.
“Quirion, this is Devon Merrybone, a colleague of mine who researches maritime life. Devon, this is Quirion, my mentor and former employer.”
Quirion held out his hand with an expression that had shudders running down Milo’s back. His demon— not my demon, the demon, damn it —had his extra polite smile on display, all teeth and threat, meaning it looked like that of a shark, with glamour and without. Quirion was ready to do battle, whether with words or claws would be determined by Devon’s reaction.
“I’ve heard of you, Devon, was it? You’re the man who thinks scholarly funding is a piggy bank to be used at your convenience.”
He grabbed Devon’s hand and shook it. Judging from the wince on Devon’s face, Quirion wasn’t too subtle about the pissing contest this was meant to be.
Though Milo had to give credit where credit was due. Either out of utter ignorance or true bravery, Devon held Quirion’s hostile stare and gripped his hand back, so hard his knuckles turned white. A flash of grudging respect crossed Quirion’s features before he let go.
“Yes, I’m Devon and no, I don’t think scholarly funding is a piggy bank. It’s not my fault the board decided my research is more promising than Abber’s.” He shrugged, silently accepting the gauntlet Quirion had thrown him.
“Oh, of course it’s not your fault. I bet nothing ever really is. It’s your daddy’s money that’s to blame. So easy, too, as it has no will of its own.” Quirion sounded almost giddy delivering these words. He loved nothing more than sparring verbally and finally getting Devon—who he had cursed more than once during Milo’s time at the MIT—in his clutches was bound to make him happy. It was also the exact reason Milo had always talked him out of ‘having a word’ with Devon. It was bound to end poorly.
“What are you insinuating?” Devon managed to look just the right amount of wounded without giving Quirion a win. “I am a serious scientist looking to stop coral bleach and saving the reefs of this world. It’s certainly a more profound research field than nanobots.” Devon spit the word out as if it were something vile. “And since we’re on the subject of money, I ask again, what are you helping Abber with? Is he unable to do his own legwork? Does he need a little doggo to help?”
The last sentence was what sealed Devon’s fate. Quirion was all for well-placed barbs and needling insults under the guise of politeness. What he couldn’t stand, because it was vulgar , were outright slurs when people ran out of ammunition.
His demon—Milo decided to go with the possessive pronoun, because no way was he being able to think anything else when Quirion was defending him—drew up to his full height. Even with the glamour, he was a good head taller than Devon, who actually drew back a little, the first sign of self-preservation he had displayed since entering Milo’s lab. “Milo is the very definition of capable and mongrels who yap too loudly get taken to the kill shelter.”
Devon became white as a sheet, turned on his heel and fled from the lab.