Chapter 18 #2
“Technically,” I reply, “yes. It is both possible and fair play in terms of the Accords. There are no rules against using magic for personal gain. In fact, many practitioners believe the entire point of magic is to make life richer and more fulfilling for yourself and the people you care for, thereby putting more love and creativity into the world at large. At the other end of the spectrum, curse work and hexing also have their place—and I’d categorize quote-unquote ‘siccing’ an imp on an ex-associate of any sort firmly in that camp—though such dealings should not be entered into frivolously.
All magic comes with tradeoffs. Costs. Consequences.
Never should it be wielded irresponsibly or treated as a parlor trick, especially when it comes to demonic magic. ”
She contemplates this, then nods, the spark slowly returning to her eyes.
Which is a relief, honestly. For a moment, I thought the memory of her ex had stolen her well-earned happiness over the successful summoning, and then I’d have to delay our lessons and track down this flaming cunt myself, rip out his lungs, and toss him into the sea.
But! The woman is smiling again, so the cunt gets to live another day. Lucky for him.
“I think it’s best if we hold off on the demon-siccing for now,” she says. “A good spell to keep in my back pocket, though. You never know!”
“No, I suppose you never do. Shall we wrap up the lesson?”
I walk her through the energetic unbinding process, which she performs beautifully. The imp is released back to Hell, the portal solidifying into cement once more.
“Nailed it!” She does a little twirl that brings another smile to my face. Getting to be quite the job hazard, that.
I must admit… The more time we spend together, the more I’m enjoying her company. Not just as an eager student, or an academic conquest, or even as the target of my assignment.
But as a person.
One with whom it’s becoming increasingly difficult to maintain my personal boundaries.
“…don’t you think?”
“What?” I pull myself back into the present. “I mean… of course. Yes, good call.”
“Do you really mean that?”
I have no bloody idea what she’s talking about. “Absolutely.”
“Great! I’ve just devised a spell to summon a fourteenth-level archdemon using a rusty ice skate, a quart of lamb’s blood, and The Devil card. It’s gonna be freaking epic!”
Satan save me. I raise my hands in surrender. “All right, you caught me. My attention drifted. But I’m back now.”
“Good. Because I do actually have an idea. A real one.”
“No.”
“Not a hellbeast summoning, I promise.”
“The answer is still no.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”
“As a scholar of Oxford and lifelong student of human psychology, I can predict with statistically meaningful certainty that it’s going to involve drugs, alcohol, flagrant recklessness, and/or some combination thereof.”
“Sounds to me like you’re using a whole lot of fancy-ass Oxford words just to state the obvious.”
“The obvious, being…?”
“You, Dr. Sutherland, are boring as fuck. Which is kind of a weird thing to say about a high-level fancy-pants demon scholar, but—”
“It’s an offensive thing to say, and it’s wholly untrue. I’m quite fascinating, for your information.”
The witch laughs long and heartily. “Oh my god, you are so cringe. I mean, it works for you. You’ve got the whole nerdy professor, smartest-demon-in-the-room thing going on, but still. Has anyone ever told you you need to loosen up and enjoy life a little more?”
I remove my spectacles. Retrieve my handkerchief.
Polish the lenses to their utmost clarity.
“By the most technical definition, Miss Bonnivarde, I’m not alive.
Therefore, I do not have a life to enjoy.
Furthermore, your entire premise is built upon the false assumption that I don’t already enjoy my existence, for what it is, which undermines your argument and leads to its inevitable intellectual collapse.
If you’d like to discuss this issue further, I suggest you develop a different thesis and work harder to defend it with actual evidence rather than a collection of presumptuous—”
“Um, professor?”
“What?” I snap, replacing my spectacles.
“You’re doing it again.” She smiles, lighting up the whole damn room, brighter even than her wildflower bouquet, and I forgot why I was so bloody irritated in the first place.
I rake a hand through my hair and shrug. “So I am.”
“That settles it. My idea stands. We...” She gestures back and forth between us, that deadly smile gleaming. “…are going out.”
I open my mouth to stop this train before it leaves the tracks and crashes into the hillside, but apparently she’s already built her new thesis, because here she goes.
“Do you know what my Tarot card was today?” she asks. “Three of Cups.”
“Ha!” I point an accusatory finger. “Your card was the Six of Wands, you incorrigible brat.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine, but my vibe is the Three of Cups. It’s basically the party card. Celebrating good times with friends, dancing, enjoying our mutual existences, alive or dead or immortal or some and/or all of the above. God! Why are you so stubborn and… and… un-convincable?”
“Don’t lay the blame on me, Miss Bonnivarde. Perhaps your arguments are unconvincing.”
“You want better reasons? Fine.” She begins counting down on her fingers. “One, it’s Friday night. Two, we’ve been working our assess off for months—”
“Weeks, more accurately, and—”
“And three…” She grins and wriggles her eyebrows, her voice a lilting sing-song. “I made an amazing discovery.”
“Well? Don’t keep me hanging like your unformed imp. What is it?”
She wriggles the brows again. “There’s… a bar.”
“What?”
“A bar. A pub. Whatever you call it, it’s the only game in town.
It’s called Kettles and it’s a total dive and the jukebox stopped updating in the seventies.
The only people who go there are cranky old men whose idea of a good time is getting blitzed and complaining about their prostates.
Helena told me about it—she’s a regular. ”
“Oh! Sounds like a right jolly affair, why didn’t we think of it sooner? No.”
“Shut up. We’re going.” She grabs her cardigan from the table, then cocks her head and glares at me like I’m a wayward pup refusing to heed its master’s call.
I try, one last time, to save us both. “Must I elucidate all the myriad reasons this is a terrible idea?”
“No one likes a premature elucidater, Professor.”
I glare.
“Pleeease,” she says, with that now-familiar twinkle in her eye, and fucking Hellfire, I’m powerless. Useless. The Council should take away my demon credentials and cast me into the eternal flames.
“Fine,” I grind out. “We’ll go to this dreadful, unbearable, geriatric pub if it will erase that pathetic look from your face. Honestly, Miss Bonnivarde. It’s beneath you.”
“Ha! But it worked, didn’t it?”
I sigh and hold up my index finger. “One drink, then we’re calling it a night.”
“One drink,” she promises. “You’re gonna love it.”