Chapter 11
eleven
MERRICK
The news of the lost grimoire is most disturbing.
Supper is out of the question, sleep eludes me, and by the following day, my cottage is in a shambles and my mind is frazzled beyond consolation, tripping over the vast impossibility of it, the irresponsibility, the audacity of a witch in Evelyn’s position letting one of the most powerful books in the human realm out of her sight long enough for it to go missing…
It’s taken everything I possess not to explode into my demon form and raze this entire town to the ground.
Fortunately for Graves Hollow, burning a town to ash without cause or a properly executed permit results in the sort of red tape I do not have time to cut through right now.
I promised I’d be on my best behavior, and I mean to avoid any disciplinary action by the Council—a punishment that would only further postpone my work in the archives.
Not to mention frighten my new student. Something I’m endeavoring, for highly inconvenient reasons I shall pretend not to understand, to avoid.
I’ve yet to inform the Council of our misfortune.
There’s still a chance the grimoire can be recovered, no one the wiser.
Miss Bonnivarde claims to have a lead, though she refuses to share details, and this morning I find myself waiting for her once again.
In the town square, no less! Crawling with…
with people. Well, two people, but still.
Every one of them is a potential social interaction, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode with a “hello, there!” or “how are you today?”
Disgusting. Appalling. Utterly—
“Excuse me, sir?”
As I was saying!
I whirl around with a scowl. A man stares up at me, small dog yelping at his feet, both of them clearly in need of my precious attention.
“Can’t you see I’m otherwise engaged?” I demand.
“Not to be interrupted. Left unmolested to the privacy of my very private thoughts. If I wanted companionship, I would’ve given some indication of it.
A smile, perhaps. An invitation to exchange pleasantries.
A nod or a wave or a… something! Well, you have my attention now. Speak!”
The man glares. The dog growls. The man glares some more. “Dude. You’re, uh, standing on the leash.”
“I see.” I lift my offending foot, the man tugs the leash free, and I’m spared the effort of an apology by the sudden whirlwind of Miss Bonnivarde, bustling into the square like a tempest, calling out for me, waving wildly, as if I could somehow miss her.
“Where have you been?” I demand, abandoning the insipid man with the dog. “I very nearly had a conversation.”
“How awful for you,” she says flatly. I notice she does not come bearing pastries today.
“You assured me you would arrive on time today, and yet—”
“I’ve had a busy morning, Dr. Panties In a Bunch! Jeez!”
“What happened?”
“A lot! First of all, I nearly ruined my boots in the woods yesterday, and chipped my nail polish trying to clean them, so not only did I have to wait around all morning for my new boots to be delivered, I also had to repaint my nails. And there still not totally dry, so whatever you do, don’t touch me. ”
Memories flash. The silken warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips. That little hitch of breath. The look of wanting in her eyes, most certainly a reflection of my own…
Utter foolishness.
“I can assure you that I won’t,” I say.
“And anyway, it’s raining? Or it was. Everything takes longer when it rains. You should’ve planned better. Let’s hope the bookstore is open today—I don’t think Helena has a phone, either. What is it with you old people?”
For all that is terrible and unholy, this is the witch tasked with overseeing the portal between realms? With keeping the boundary safe and untampered with?
“For your information, Miss Bonnivarde, I’m thirty-two.”
She cocks an eyebrow.
“At least, I was.”
The witch looks skeptical. “Before or after the invention of the wheel?”
“A demon is not allowed to reveal his demonic age. To do so is akin to a fae revealing his true name in the tales of old.”
She laughs, a sound I’m becoming all too attached to. “You are totally making that up.”
“Miss Bonnivarde.” I cast a raised eyebrow. “Are you questioning my scholarly merits?”
“I would never,” she teases. “But in the future, if you want to give me shit, you should probably do something about those bright red ears.”
“Noted.”
We walk in companionable silence, the misty morning giving way to drizzle again, but neither of us is bothered.
The streets are nearly vacant, and for a moment I feel as though the witch and I are in our own private realm, strolling the streets of some quaint little village, no concerns but enjoying each other’s company.
“I read one of the books, you know,” she finally says. “Well, part of it. While my nails were drying. The one on divination? Slow going—you know I’m not a big fan of words on the page.” A self-deprecating laugh. “But it’s actually pretty interesting.”
This comes as a surprise. “Miss Bonnivarde. Are you… taking initiative?”
“Maybe? I just don’t want to fall behind. Yesterday was only the start, and we don’t have the grimoire yet, so I figure I should get a jump on things. The reading itself didn’t go too badly. The diagrams were super helpful.”
“Any aspect of particular interest?”
She beams up at me, excitement dancing in her eyes. “The Tarot card stuff is super cool. I found an old deck in the basement too. The one that gave me that vision? Anyway, I think I’d like to start there.”
“Excellent choice. The perfect complement to your channeling capabilities.”
Her enthusiasm brightens my mood. Despite her chronic lateness, and lack of pastries, she’s proving quite an eager student. Perhaps I didn’t give her enough credit.
And a channel, besides! Very rare. A small, defiant part of me wishes we could avoid this nasty transfer-of-power business and find a way to work together long-term.
How I would love the opportunity to study her properly, to observe her as she discovers new techniques and blossoms into her full magical awakening—
“Shoot, my nails.” She stops on the sidewalk and thrusts her hip toward me, jacket fluttering. “Can you grab the stuff in my pocket?”
“You know my rules about touching.”
She rolls her eyes, and I wonder if she might call me out on yesterday’s infraction. But the witch is nothing if not clever, so it should come as no surprise that she takes the less obvious method.
Emotional manipulation.
“Please, Dr. Sutherland?” She blinks up at me, eyes wide and innocent, rosy lips shaping a fresh pout. “It’s super important. I need it.”
“Do not confuse desire with need, for that is the surest path to Hell.” Ignoring the heat of her body, a beacon in the damp, I reach into the pocket, careful not to linger. I retrieve a familiar box.
Oliver’s unseemly gift. I never should’ve allowed it.
“Lighter too, please,” she adds, and I fish that out next, holding it while she retrieves a hand-rolled marijuana cigarette from the box, minding her freshly painted nails.
Pale pink today, with a shimmer like the inside of a seashell.
Popping the joint between her lips, she leans close, nodding for me to light it.
“For the love of hellfire.” I oblige, and she smirks as she inhales, her gaze holding mine like a dare.
After an infuriatingly long beat, flame still flickering in her green eyes, she draws back and exhales a delicate plume into the sky. When she finally speaks, her voice is froggish. “Fair warning… The woman we’re meeting today—Helena?”
“The bat-woman.”
“Yeah. She’s a little intense.”
“In what way?”
“In the way that makes you grateful you took the edge off beforehand.” She helps herself to another deep inhale, then holds the joint out to me. “You’re not a people person, Professor. And Helena is… Well. She’s a special kind of people. Trust me. You need this.”
“What did I tell you about conflating need and desire?”
She grins. Far too adorably. “Um… not to?”
With an admonishing glare, I pluck the offending specimen from her fingers, intent on pitching it straight into the gutter.
It’s damp from her lips, glossed with a shimmering pink that matches her nail polish, and I remember that all-too-brief touch again, the round “o” of her mouth, her eyes as green as the forest and just as inviting, and suddenly, with neither precedent nor warning, I draw the joint to my lips.
I close my eyes, and a thought emerges from the depths.
It’s almost as if I’m kissing her…
Well, I’m committed now. No backing down without looking like an absolute wanker. I take a deep drag.
Too deep. Damn it.
“Pardon me,” I cough. “I haven’t… indulged in… in ages.”
“There’s your problem right there.” She takes it back and puffs away, making it look as natural as breathing. “Give it time. It’ll come back to you. Like riding a bike.”
She holds it out for another go, but I decline. One of us must keep our wits about us, and clearly she isn’t volunteering. She shrugs and continues to imbibe, finishing up just as we reach the shop.
A soft light glows from inside—open, it seems. Stretched out in the display case, a black cat waves its tail, leering at us.
The door chime announces our arrival, and I take moment to absorb our surroundings, grateful we’re the only patrons. It’s less a bookstore and more a museum, each towering shelf crammed with trinkets and statues and books.
Rows upon rows of glorious, well-loved books.
I relax.
“There you are,” comes the call, and a woman emerges from the stacks, green spectacles akimbo, hair in a wild bun, bracelets tinkling on her wrist. Her skirt is long, edged in tiny metal bells. Stealthy, she is not.
“I’ve been expecting you, Lizzy,” the woman says with a knowing smile. “But you…” She turns to me and narrows her eyes, scrutinizing me furiously. “Straight from the pit, eh? Didn’t waste any time.”
“Not by choice,” I reply, as if this might bolster my standing. “I was sent here by—”
“The great and terrible Council,” she says with a mocking air. “I’m aware.”
“Then you should also be aware—assuming you’re a friend the Bonnivarde family—our goals are aligned. I’m here to ensure that the transition of power to the heirs goes as smoothly as possible, and that the portal is swiftly re-secured.” A stellar gent, that’s right! Nary an ulterior motive in sight!
“I am much more than a friend to the Bonnivardes, and have been since long before either of you were born, and I’d surely appreciate a bit of respect. Some gratitude, perhaps, for my enduring loyalty. Can you say the same, Mr… what did you say your name was?”
“Sutherland. Doctor Merrick Sutherland.”
“Doctor of what?” Helena asks.
“Of both Library Sciences and early English Literature, though my scholarly interest now extends well beyond the language arts of the human realm. In Hell, I serve as head archivist. I’m also an advanced educator well-versed in the occult.”
If my credentials impress her, she certainly doesn’t show it.
“I hope you speak the truth, Doctor Sutherland. For your sake.”
“I could say the same of you.”
We square off, the tension thickening, until Miss Bonnivarde laughs that musical laugh and says, “It’s all right, Helena. Jeez. The professor is cool. Trust me. We’re all on the same side here.”
I force my stoic face to remain still, smothering the smug grin that so desperately wants to emerge. Cool. I’m finally cool! Not a goal to which I’ve ever aspired, yet her words make my heart soar nevertheless.
Helena gives me a last once-over. Then she smiles and says the magic words, eradicating all lingering traces of enmity. “Would anyone care for tea?”
“I did warn you.” Miss Bonnivarde keeps her voice low as the elder woman bumbles around in some back room, allegedly preparing the tea. “She’s super eccentric and very in your face about it.”
“Yes, well. She obviously cares a great deal for her books; her shop is well-curated. And she’s making us tea. She can’t be all bad then, can she?”
“That’s it? Books and tea? Those are your high standards?”
“In my experience, those who mean us the most harm are also the most small-minded and incurious. A bookstore proprietress is neither. Furthermore, seldom do pastries and a good cuppa inspire violence. So long as she follows through on her offer—and the tea is of a proper caliber, of course—then yes. I shall deem her a friend to the cause.”
Leaving her to ponder my wise words, I take a stroll round the shop, further admiring the offerings, even finding a few rare editions to enhance my own collection. The black cat follows close at my heels, purring contentedly.
Apparently, I’ve passed the test.
Guilt simmers, but I ignore it. It’s a skill, really. Also, a survival tactic.
“Over here, dears,” Helena calls, and I join her and Miss Bonnivarde at a table set up in the rear of the shop, a fire crackling beside it.
What an undiscovered gem, this little corner of Graves Hollow.
The table is set with tea service and a plate of golden lemon cream biscuits. Helena is smiling, gesturing for me to take a seat. Her animosity has entirely thawed. Perhaps my ability to make a grand impression hasn’t, in fact, evaporated.
Because I’m cool. Obviously.
“This is just lovely.” I settle in beside Miss Bonnivarde. The cat leaps into my lap, making herself at home. “There are few pleasures so perfect as sitting for tea by the fire on a rainy day, surrounded by books and cats. Thank you for your kindness, Helena.”
“Oh, sure,” the woman says, pouring three cups from a ceramic pot. “I just hope you know how royally fucked we all are.”