Chapter 15
fifteen
MERRICK
Tucked into the darkest, dustiest corner of my beloved archives, seated at a battered oak library table across from Warren and Oliver, I attempt to relay the utter, absolute shit show that is Graves Hollow and the Bonnivarde three.
Saying it all out loud, trying to piece it together into some semblance of a story, I’m left to wonder once again why this heinously impossible task was appointed to me.
Bitterness ensues.
Being back here again, cast as we are in the soft familiar glow of the green bankers’ lamps, hemmed in on all sides by books, dust motes dancing in the air, my singular wish is that I might return to my research, to the true task of my heart rather than entertaining the whims of a capricious overlord who dangles freedom like a carrot, yet only ever delivers the stick.
Still. Despite my well-earned frustrations, I find myself thinking, of all things, of Miss Bonnivarde.
Wondering what she’d make of this place.
How it would look through her inquisitive eyes.
Would she run her fingers along the book spines, as I have done on so many occasions?
Would she remark upon the vaulted ceilings bewitched to look like a stormy sky?
The cerulean mosaic tile flooring? The endlessly fascinating architectural marvels of men stolen from her realm and brought to ours to house this most precious collection of sacred, arcane knowledge?
Would she ask me to read for her? Would she sit beside me near the hearth, glass of wine and notorious marijuana cigarette in hand, and allow me to weave for her a dark and dreamy fantasy that leaves her breathless and enraptured, wholly transformed?
If I close my eyes, I can almost feel her presence, see that long blonde hair trailing her round the next shelf…
Alas. The daydream is nothing but a cruel tease. One in which I don’t have the luxury of indulging.
I finish my initial report. My companions seem especially distressed.
We’re all three in our demonic forms, black as night, horned, shadows gathering close. Beneath the glow of the lamps, we look even more ominous; a Renaissance painting of Hell brought to startling life.
“If the hunters are active again,” says Warren, “your witches are in grave danger, Merri.”
“I’m aware.”
“Quite the clusterfuck, innit?” Oliver rises from his chair, pacing. “These girls need to understand and learn their magic in order to protect themselves and stabilize the portal. But they need the grimoire if they want a bloody chance. And the men who most want their heads on a pike—”
“I won’t let that happen,” I say.
“Point is, the bastards who pose the most immediate threat are the same fucks who stole the spell book. Right? So how are you proposing they get it back? Saunter into the lion’s den like three pieces of raw meat?”
“What’s their angle, you think?” Warren asks. “The hunters, I mean. Use the grimoire to lure the witches out of hiding?”
“They’re not in hiding,” I reply. “The witches have made no secret about their arrival in Grave’s Hollow.
They’re working with professionals on settling the estate, selling the home…
There are no shortage of people who know exactly where they are at all times, just as the hunters knew where Evelyn was.
If they wished it, the hunters could execute the witches this evening.
” The thought sends a chill through my very bones.
I shake my head, adamant. “No. If they wanted to eradicate the line, they could’ve easily done so by now. ”
“Again,” Warren says. “What’s the end game?”
“They must intend to use the grimoire, to tap into its power somehow. They can’t do it alone—they’re only men. They need a witch.”
“Then why kill Evelyn?” Oliver asks, reclaiming his chair.
It’s a question that’s bothering me as well. “Perhaps they intended to harm rather than kill her, and it went too far. Or maybe they don’t intend to use it at all, but ensure that no one else can use it, either. Namely, the witches tasked with guardianship.”
“There’s another possibility,” Warren says. “Blackmail. They could find another witch, coerce her. A witch outside the bloodline wouldn’t be as effective as an original Bonnivarde, but she could still do a lot of damage with the spells in that book, particularly as they pertain to the portal.”
“Is there historical precedent for that?” I ask. “You’d think the Bonnivardes would have an enchantment on it to disallow—”
“Fuck historical precedent, Merri,” Warren replies. “At this point, it doesn’t even matter what their motives were. It only matters that we get that book back. If Matthias finds out, his wrath will—”
“I don’t need a lecture, Warren. I need a plan. Especially for dealing with Matthias.” I unleash a dark sigh. “I’m not looking forward to delivering the news.”
“You’re not delivering shit.” Oliver leans forward, his face close to mine, voice low. “We’re keeping this on lock until we figure out our move here.”
“I appreciate the ‘we,’ Oliver, but I don’t need either of you putting your neck on the line for me.” I rise from the table, turning to contemplate the fresco behind us—Hades in the Underworld, the river before him lined with hollow skeletons rising out of the mist.
Selfishly, I’m glad I ended up in Hell with my best mates from University. I wouldn’t have survived long without them. Yet so often, their loyalty feels like a weight. One I didn’t ask for and don’t deserve.
If it wasn’t for me, Warren and Oliver wouldn’t even be here, serving out their immortal eternity under a tyrant.
If it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t be demons at all. They would’ve died as men. Respectable, honorable, decent men, dead of natural causes at the end of a life well-lived and well-loved.
“Matthias appointed this task to me.” I leave Hades to deal with his skeletons and take my seat again. “I welcome your advice, but not your interference. I will deal with him as I see fit. And if you don’t like that, you can piss off.”
Oliver laughs and smacks my cheek.“Please don’t get sentimental on us.”
I slap his hand away, but his comment brings a bit of levity to the otherwise grim conversation. Unfortunately, his smile immediately dims. He and Warren exchange a glance.
“What am I missing?” I ask. “For fuck’s sake, I haven’t been gone long enough for you two to get into any serious trouble down here.”
“Not us this time,” Warren says. “But it is something we’re going to have to deal with. Sooner, rather than later.”
Oliver casts a quick glance around the room, then drops his voice. “The lower realms are in open rebellion, Merri. Matthias’ forces are keeping things mostly in check, but he’s wasting a lot of resources doing it, and he’s losing ground.”
I wave a hand, dismissing his concern. “A round of pot-stirring by the bored demonic rabble isn’t worth discussing. I’m sure it will burn itself out before it can gain any real momentum.”
“That’s just it, though,” he says. “They don’t seem to be aiming for momentum. It’s all a distraction.”
“For what purpose?”
“For whose purpose, more like.” His voice dips a notch lower.
“The chaos demons are gaining a stronger foothold than we ever thought possible. They’re organizing, mate.
Planning to make their move. Problem is, we don’t know when or how or what the fuck that will even look like. Only that it’s coming.”
“Matthias knows it too,” Warren adds. “The bastard won’t admit it, but it’s got him tied in knots. His forces are spread thin dealing with the pot-stirring, as you’ve called it. But demons talk, and rumors are spreading fast. Matthias is losing his grip. There are whispers of a coup.”
Alarm spikes through my chest. “By the chaos demons? But… how is it even possible? They’re so bleeding… chaotic!”
Which is what makes them so damned dangerous.
They’re not the most physically or magically powerful, but—as their name implies—they can harness what power they do possess to wreak absolute havoc in ways that are almost completely impossible to predict.
One of them is a nuisance. Thousands of them, working in unison, would be disastrous on an epic scale.
Something Hell has never planned for. And why should we?
The chaos demons’ very nature prevents them from organizing.
From unifying into a single, unstoppable threat.
Which means that something—or someone—has altered the nature of their reality. An extremely rare and nearly impossible feat, but not completely impossible. This, in fact, does have a historical precedent.
A four-thousand-odd-year-old precedent.
“The Obsidian Wars,” I whisper, and Warren and Oliver nod. It’s the one bit of Hell’s history that every demon understands, regardless of their level of scholarship. The one we’re trained to prevent at all costs.
And all it needed to get started, all those millennia ago, was a handful of chaos demons, a very powerful binding spell, and a dark witch with a vendetta against the devil himself.
Back then, God stepped in before the carnage could spill into the mortal realm, an event that would’ve no doubt obliterated his precious human experiment. But that, as all the scholars of old and new agree, was a one-time intervention.
If that sort of war broke out again? And the portal isn’t stabilized, but left in the guardianship of untrained, untested witches, two of whom don’t even believe magic exists?
No one survives it. Not even us.
“Merri, if ever there was a time to see it through…” Warren taps the table, his knee bouncing beneath it.
I’ve not seen him so worked up before. “You need to find the book, convince them to transfer the guardianship, and get back here so we can help Matthias deal with this rebellion. The literal fate of the world is at stake.”