Chapter 2
two
MERRICK
Ahh, there’s nothing quite like the scent of old parchment to soothe a tattered soul.
Figuratively speaking. A demon has no soul; ergo, the possession of one is not a prerequisite to suffering. The point, however, remains.
The only place I can find peace in all the realms of Hell is in my library.
To be fair, I felt the same way as a living human, but that’s neither here nor there. How does the old adage go? You can rip the soul out of a person, but you can’t rip a book lover out of the library?
Pressing the ancient tome to my face, I give it a final appreciative whiff—Norah Azriel’s Encyclopaedia of Lesser Demons, a scent more resplendent than that of the finest wines—then place it back on the shelf.
It’s the last of the “A” authors, now fully catalogued, painstakingly restored, shelved in its proper place.
Years of careful, dedicated work—mine, naturally—and it’s only the beginning.
I consult my list. The Bs are next, thousands of them, starting with the old classic, The Art of Torture and Torment: A Love Story, by M. Ballentine. It takes some perusing, but I finally locate it mixed in with the Ts, because clearly the reckless heathens were in charge before I came along.
Running a white-gloved finger along the spine, I gently slide it from the shelf and—
“Do they like it when you tickle them first?” Warren grins from the other side of the shelf, gray eyes peering at me through the gap left by the book. He’s really perfected his human form—artfully mussed light brown hair, bespoke charcoal suit. Cologne, for fuck’s sake.
God forgive us our desperate clinging; may the old ways never die.
Ha! As if God has ever granted us lowly demons an audience.
“Has anyone ever told you lurking in the stacks is perverse?” I ask.
“No more than caressing books, you old scamp.” Laughing, he comes round to my side and gives me the full appraisal. “You’ve been sleeping here again, Merrick Sutherland.”
“Doctor Sutherland, if you please. And nonsense. I haven’t slept in days.”
“Or eaten, I assume.” He shoves a small paper sack toward me, exchanging it for my book without permission. The twin hypnotic scents of sugar and fresh-baked bread waft from the bag, which is the only reason I’m not bludgeoning him with it. Pastries have always been my weakness.
“Hattie made these?” I ask, peeking inside. Chocolate croissants, the Devil’s favorite. Mine too, though she typically reserves them for Him.
“Special order.”
“Really. And what, pray tell, did you offer in return?”
“Nothing much. Told her she could drop by later, give you a fondle.”
“You what?”
“She’s quite good, Merri. Give it a go, you might even like it.”
Against all that is holy, I shove the bag back at him, pastries untouched. The demoness Hattie doesn’t provide baked goods or fondling out of the kindness of her stone-cold heart, and neither does my best mate. Which means he’s easing the passage for some other dreadful request.
I can only imagine what. Last time I accepted one of Warren’s pastry gifts, I found myself dog-sitting his hellhound for two straight weeks while he and Oliver gallivanted through the lower realms in search of the famed three-breasted sorceress.
By the time they returned, I was nearly mummified in a semi-solid carapace of mutt hair and drool.
And I’m not sure they found the sorceress, either.
“Spoilsport.” He rolls his eyes, fanning himself with Torture and Torment.
I snatch the book from his grip and place it on my cart, barely resisting the urge to utter an apology. To the book, not to the demon. Obviously.
“And what’s this week’s fascinating research topic?” he asks, digging into the croissants himself. “Boning up on torture techniques, are we? Ollie will be pleased. Important to stay sharp, he always says.”
“Still archiving, I’m afraid. No time for research at the moment.
” A lie, but a necessary one. If he knew the real subject of my work—the real reason I campaigned so hard to be assigned these long and lifeless hours in Hell’s most neglected archives—he’d only try to talk me out of it.
Then, realizing dissuading me was a fool’s errand, he’d insist upon helping.
Way too risky a proposition for both of us.
Through a mouth full of croissant, he says, “You haven’t heard, then.”
“Nor do I particularly care to, but you’re obviously bursting at the seams.” A great sigh escapes. “You and your blackmail pastries. I knew this wasn’t a simple kindness.”
“Merri! I’m wounded.”
“Out with it, Warren. I’ve work to do.”
He licks the last bit of melted chocolate from his fingertips and grins, arching a mischievous eyebrow. “The Bonnivarde Witches.”
“What of them?”
“The heirs have returned to Graves Hollow. All three.”
“Oh?” A frisson of academic curiosity unfurls in my chest. “Evelyn Bonnivarde has expired?”
He glares at me as if I’ve sprouted another head—totally unfair; it’s been at least forty years since that particular mishap. “You know, Merri, it wouldn’t kill you to emerge from the stacks once in a while. Catch up on the news. Socialize a bit.”
“You do recall we died at a party, right?”
“Your capacity for grudge-holding is admirable.”
“It was your idea.”
“It was more than a century ago.”
“You quite literally dragged me out of the library to—and I quote— ‘socialize a bit,’ and the next thing I knew, we were whisked off to Hell and—”
“Evelyn’s been dead for over a week, mate.
And that’s hardly the worst of it.” He puts an arm around me—an alarming gesture.
He knows my displeasure of touch, and typically respects that boundary.
For him to overlook it means he’s distracted.
Upset, even, beneath all the good humor and fine suits and baked goods.
Bleeding skies. Whatever urgency has brought him down to the archives to seek me out, I’m surely going to hate it.
“You’re going to hate this,” he says.
“Clearly.”
“I did my best to dissuade him, but you know how Matthias is when he’s got an idea stuck in his head, and—”
“For fuck’s sake, Warren. Just tell me.”
Another sigh, a final squeeze round the shoulders, and he steps back. There’s an apology in his eyes, though I can’t tell whether it’s for the unwanted affection or the news he’s about to deliver.
“Evelyn bound her daughters’ power and sent them away as children,” he says. “Decades later, they have no memory or knowledge of their heritage, nor of their duties. The portal, as it stands, is unguarded. Without an infusion of new magic, we’ve got only weeks at best.”
“Not to worry. Any binding spell cast by their mother would’ve broken upon her death. The sisters’ reunion—in their ancestral home, no less—should start unlocking their magic almost immediately.”
“Right, but they won’t know what to do with it.
They’ll need an orientation. Training. And that’s assuming they don’t outright refuse the call.
” Sympathy flashes in his eyes. “Until this morning, they led mundane human lives. Jobs, boyfriends, regular bullshit. Someone needs to ease them into this, Merri.”
Ah. So there it is. The first shoe dropped.
“The Council wants demons leading the charge,” he confirms.
“Right. Shaping young minds and whatnot?”
“Better than some renegade witch bending their ears.”
“Are there no other relatives?”
“The bloodline is broken.”
“How fortuitous for Hell,” I say dryly, wondering how much of my evening I’ll need to dedicate to the cause, unearthing rare treaties and spell books, looking for loopholes our illustrious leaders might exploit.
“The Council isn’t wrong, Merri. Not on this.
Witches have gained too much control over Hell’s magic.
It’s supposed to be an equal responsibility for an equal power, but we’ve been giving it up by degrees year after year, and Evelyn…
well, the portal hasn’t been exactly stable under her reign, has it? ”
I can’t argue that. We’ve had more trouble in the last decade than in all the decades prior.
Demons who haven’t earned the right to travel to the human realm, slipping through the portal unregulated, wreaking havoc.
Unscrupulous witches taking advantage, summoning and binding entities well beyond their capabilities, or worse—visiting Hell uninvited, searching for more power.
The portal itself requires equilibrium, and every infraction—on their side or ours—further destabilizes it.
Despite a clever publicity campaign, the underworld abhors chaos; Hell’s greatest power lies it its ability to maintain complete control. Or at the very least, the illusion of it. Without the assistance of highly skilled witches, that illusion becomes much more difficult to maintain.
“Now is our chance to reroute the course,” Warren continues. “Evelyn’s heirs are untested, unbiased. What better time to step in, assert our interests, and re-solidify the partnership?”
“By assert and re-solidify, you mean—”
“Take the responsibility off their hands. Reclaim control.”
“Impossible. They’d have to give up the portal guardianship willingly, or the transfer of power is nullified. Threat, coercion, and trickery are a direct violation of the Accords.”
“Convincing them that the transfer is in their best interest is not.”
“Fine line, Warren. Fine line.”
“One the Council is ready to walk.” He crumples the now empty pastry bag and arcs it toward the wastebasket at the end of the row. Misses the shot. Ignores it. “Matthias already signed off. It’s as good as done.”
Disappointment settles inside. He’s right—I do hate this. Not that I’d admit as much, but I’ll miss him while he’s topside. Training new witches? Convincing them to hand over an ancient power? That could take months. Years, even, if they’re half as stubborn as their mother was. “When do you leave?”
Confusion flickers in Warren’s gaze, followed by something that looks an awful lot like regret. “Merri…”