This looks like so much fun! Thinking of throwing in a druid character with a grudge and a habit of skewering the King's men with plants.
Atalanta
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L&S Fables
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Steve Mincraft. The dude breaks trees with his fists.
Bio
I'm Liv Savell, and here are some things I've written:
❖ Vassal (Call of Calamity Book I)
❖ Goddess (Call of Calamity Book II)
❖ Shepherd of Souls (Shepherd of Souls Book I)
❖ Death Seeker (Shepherd of Souls Book II)
❖ The Thistle Queen’s Thorns (Kindle Vella)
❖ The Last Contender (Song of the Lost Book I)
❖ Emissary to the Frost Wolf (Song of the Lost Book II)
❖ The Warrior Dasan (Song of the Lost Book III) Available Dec. 31 2024
❖ Co-Author: @Sterling ❖
❖ Website: lsfables.com ❖
❖ Vassal (Call of Calamity Book I)
❖ Goddess (Call of Calamity Book II)
❖ Shepherd of Souls (Shepherd of Souls Book I)
❖ Death Seeker (Shepherd of Souls Book II)
❖ The Thistle Queen’s Thorns (Kindle Vella)
❖ The Last Contender (Song of the Lost Book I)
❖ Emissary to the Frost Wolf (Song of the Lost Book II)
❖ The Warrior Dasan (Song of the Lost Book III) Available Dec. 31 2024
❖ Co-Author: @Sterling ❖
❖ Website: lsfables.com ❖
Most Recent Posts
Blythe brightened slightly at the mention of the missing book. She had both Principalities and Manekidasu Orosu in her hands—she didn’t speak Japanese, only English and Spanish, but she was hoping Emma or Eleanor would be able to pick through it. She’d have to mention that Colter had one of Emma’s books, too—the doctor might just be flattered. Despite her load, she managed to get her phone out and open the voice recorder app while Gretchen was humming over another shelf.
“What happened to the Ahlam bil-Hibr?” Blythe asked, pressing the red record button on her phone. Thankfully, the sound was off, so it didn’t give her away with the start chime. “That would have been perfect.”
Gretchen glanced back just as Blythe looked up, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at the now-dark screen resting atop Blythe’s armful of books. She turned back around. “It walked off the shelf.”
“In this place?” Blythe feigned surprise and gave the hand of glory a pointed look. “I’m sure you have all sorts of protections against thieves.”
“I do.” Gretchen Colter finally turned away from her books to look at Blythe straight-on, her hoop earrings swinging as she moved. She crossed her arms over her chest, almost like she was… embarrassed.
“When did the book go missing?”
“About a week ago. Wednesday, I think, because it was inventory day. And not a single glyph went off. There are some risks in a profession like mine—it occasionally takes a… particular set of skills to acquire a rare tomb, and the people that have those sorts of skills?” She shrugged. “Sometimes they work for both sides of the industry.”
“People like Fazel Ibrahim Al-Jalasi?”
Gretchen narrowed her eyes. “What do you know?”
How much to tell? If Fazel had stolen from Gretchen, then she had a motive to kill him. It even made sense to bind her thieving associates under high-consequence contracts if she worried about theft, and he had likely been part of the auction house heist that took place near his body—a heist in which a book was stolen. The question, then, became whether or not his death was a result of stealing books or some larger conspiracy.
Blythe shrugged. “I know that he did some work for you and that he is something of a highly qualified professional in his field.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve dealt with him,” Gretchen said and followed Blythe to the front counter where she charged her for the books.
Before she left, Blythe put a Sunday Group card down on the counter. “Give us a call if you think of any other details. Maybe we can help you find your book thief.”
“Huh. They’ll let anything in these days, won’t they?” Gretchen palmed the card anyway. “Good luck on your… research.”
Blythe slipped out of the door and pointed her car back towards the Sunday Group headquarters. Maybe Eleanor would have a better idea of what to make of all this. Gretchen Colter made an interesting suspect, but somehow, Blythe didn’t think this was her. It had too much of the stink of something more involved than simple reprisal.
Blythe excused herself first. Maybe it was rude to go so quickly, with nothing more than a quick affirmation and a waved hand—Jocasta’s disembodied hands waved back—but Kolratheth was quickly becoming unmanageable. Blythe’s teeth had sharpened even while the others were talking, her cheeks filling out with the extra enamel. The tips of her fingers were turning dark, even on the hand not holding the bird, and her eyes were starting to itch.
She didn’t make it out of the building. Blythe locked herself into a single restroom on the next floor up and turned her back firmly to the mirror, though not before catching the gleam of too-wide black eyes.
“Yes,” Koratheth groaned. He left her hand and pooled in her center, hauling himself up her esophagus and into her mouth. Her lips stretched wider than possible without demonic aid, and Blythe shoved the lesser demon between them, her eyes watering at the sulfur and feather taste of demons on her tongue.
Then, it was gone, and she had her hands braced on her knees, heaving around the demon in her throat. Tears streaked her cheeks from the gag reflex, and her body convulsed. Fuck! She just wanted this over!
When it was, she vomited breakfast into the toilet while Kolratheth curled, somnolent and quiet, somewhere near the lower curve of her spine.
That shit never got better.
Afterwards, Blythe went home. She took her second shower for the day and then sat down at her computer, alternating between scrolling through modern tips for making homemade inks for spells and scholarly articles detailing why so much written work had survived from the Ottoman Empire. TLDR: their ink did its job well. For a couple of minutes, Blythe got hung up on a Reddit post by a writer looking for interesting ways to use magical ink in their story. The list started with using its acidic properties as a weapon—honestly, their killer might have been better off if the ink had liquified the corpse— and went on to include curses and binding.
This was absolutely not top-tier research, but the idea of binding caught Blythe’s attention. The one thing that each source had in common was the application of ink for its intended purpose. They weren’t mixing it with pigs’ blood or using it to coat voodoo dolls. They were writing with it. So what had the killer been writing on Fazel? Some sort of binding? Unless…
Fazel was a thief-for-hire, and someone had stolen from the auction house. Maybe the ink was a sign that he’d broken some occult contract. Or else, meddled in whatever sixteenth-century Turkish ritual he’d been hired to steal.
Blythe pushed back from her desk and grabbed a jacket. This was getting her nowhere. She needed better sources for occult bindings and contracts than the mundane internet could provide, and her favorite source for books could also have information on Fazel. Besides, it’d been too long since she’d paid Gretchen a visit. Hopefully, Adri wouldn't mind if Blythe butted in a little on her task.
With a quick text to Adri to let her know that she meant to stop by the local contact’s shop, Blythe left her house and headed into town.
Gretchen Colter’s bookshop wasn’t particularly interesting from the outside. She’d occupied the same east-end street corner for a hundred years, across from a drug store and a few bland office buildings. The paperback-laden carts outside were the same rust-nibbled, squeaky-wheeled contraptions that Gretchen had used when the place opened. Blythe was willing to bet that they held many of the same books, too. It wasn’t as though Gretchen’s bread and butter came from selling cheap romances to mundanes.
Blythe slipped in the door to the chime of bells and slid up to the counter, ignoring the shop’s perpetual clutter. Gretchen Colter herself stood behind it, wearing thick glasses above a bright orange Beatles tee that she’d probably bought in the sixties. She wore her steel grey hair short and slicked back like a greaser and seven hoops in each ear. Blythe knew Gretchen was old. She was just the sort of old that might be anywhere between eighty and seven hundred.
Gretchen looked up from her task, scribbling down titles of new arrivals in an ancient ledger, and lowered her eyebrows. “No returns.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of it,” Blythe said, smiling. “How are you, Gretchen? It’s been too long.”
“What do you want, girl?” She looked Blythe up and down. “Or rather, what does it want?”
Blythe decided to ignore the second question. “Do you have any books on bindings or magical contracts? Even better if they’re sixteenth century and/or from the Ottoman Empire.”
“Tired of your passenger already?”
“Just a bit of casual research.” Blythe froze her smile in place and pointedly didn’t think about getting rid of Kolratheth. She didn’t want to wake him up.
“Let me see what I can find…”
She didn’t make it out of the building. Blythe locked herself into a single restroom on the next floor up and turned her back firmly to the mirror, though not before catching the gleam of too-wide black eyes.
“Yes,” Koratheth groaned. He left her hand and pooled in her center, hauling himself up her esophagus and into her mouth. Her lips stretched wider than possible without demonic aid, and Blythe shoved the lesser demon between them, her eyes watering at the sulfur and feather taste of demons on her tongue.
Then, it was gone, and she had her hands braced on her knees, heaving around the demon in her throat. Tears streaked her cheeks from the gag reflex, and her body convulsed. Fuck! She just wanted this over!
When it was, she vomited breakfast into the toilet while Kolratheth curled, somnolent and quiet, somewhere near the lower curve of her spine.
That shit never got better.
Afterwards, Blythe went home. She took her second shower for the day and then sat down at her computer, alternating between scrolling through modern tips for making homemade inks for spells and scholarly articles detailing why so much written work had survived from the Ottoman Empire. TLDR: their ink did its job well. For a couple of minutes, Blythe got hung up on a Reddit post by a writer looking for interesting ways to use magical ink in their story. The list started with using its acidic properties as a weapon—honestly, their killer might have been better off if the ink had liquified the corpse— and went on to include curses and binding.
This was absolutely not top-tier research, but the idea of binding caught Blythe’s attention. The one thing that each source had in common was the application of ink for its intended purpose. They weren’t mixing it with pigs’ blood or using it to coat voodoo dolls. They were writing with it. So what had the killer been writing on Fazel? Some sort of binding? Unless…
Fazel was a thief-for-hire, and someone had stolen from the auction house. Maybe the ink was a sign that he’d broken some occult contract. Or else, meddled in whatever sixteenth-century Turkish ritual he’d been hired to steal.
Blythe pushed back from her desk and grabbed a jacket. This was getting her nowhere. She needed better sources for occult bindings and contracts than the mundane internet could provide, and her favorite source for books could also have information on Fazel. Besides, it’d been too long since she’d paid Gretchen a visit. Hopefully, Adri wouldn't mind if Blythe butted in a little on her task.
With a quick text to Adri to let her know that she meant to stop by the local contact’s shop, Blythe left her house and headed into town.
Gretchen Colter’s bookshop wasn’t particularly interesting from the outside. She’d occupied the same east-end street corner for a hundred years, across from a drug store and a few bland office buildings. The paperback-laden carts outside were the same rust-nibbled, squeaky-wheeled contraptions that Gretchen had used when the place opened. Blythe was willing to bet that they held many of the same books, too. It wasn’t as though Gretchen’s bread and butter came from selling cheap romances to mundanes.
Blythe slipped in the door to the chime of bells and slid up to the counter, ignoring the shop’s perpetual clutter. Gretchen Colter herself stood behind it, wearing thick glasses above a bright orange Beatles tee that she’d probably bought in the sixties. She wore her steel grey hair short and slicked back like a greaser and seven hoops in each ear. Blythe knew Gretchen was old. She was just the sort of old that might be anywhere between eighty and seven hundred.
Gretchen looked up from her task, scribbling down titles of new arrivals in an ancient ledger, and lowered her eyebrows. “No returns.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of it,” Blythe said, smiling. “How are you, Gretchen? It’s been too long.”
“What do you want, girl?” She looked Blythe up and down. “Or rather, what does it want?”
Blythe decided to ignore the second question. “Do you have any books on bindings or magical contracts? Even better if they’re sixteenth century and/or from the Ottoman Empire.”
“Tired of your passenger already?”
“Just a bit of casual research.” Blythe froze her smile in place and pointedly didn’t think about getting rid of Kolratheth. She didn’t want to wake him up.
“Let me see what I can find…”
Been pretty slammed, but planning on getting a post up asap.
"Not exactly,” Blythe said.
She still held the crow clutched in one hand, its wings trapped beneath her finger and its legs swinging limp. It had stopped struggling sometime during the car ride over, but it was still very much alert, its neck erect and black eyes shining.
Blythe would have disposed of it already, but there really hadn’t been enough privacy under the wide, clear windshield of her car or in the alley with Adri. And she hadn’t yet fallen so far as to consume small proto-demons with all their mess and noise in front of her coworkers. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing that would foster good company bonding—especially not when one of them was a literal angel.
“And yet, you use your hell-given abilities in front of them.” Kolratheth was basically slavering, pooling so heavily in the hand that held the crow that he was beginning to turn her fingers purple.
There is something to be said for being useful. Besides, even growing claws and sharp teeth is less… visceral than watching someone who ought to be mortal consume a demonic soul.
”Hmph. Then when will you be done here? I won’t wait forever.” Of course, Blythe knew that already. Her demon’s craving was coming through so strongly that she was starting to look forward to crow for dinner.
Instead of answering him, Blythe forced her attention back on the room around them, taking in the once ink-stained body. She’d never heard of Fazel, but she knew Gretchen Colter, at least… professionally. It would be extremely difficult to forget the person who’d sold her the book that had summoned Kolratheth.
“I think I can get us in to speak to Colter if that’s the path we want to take. She’ll probably know what Fazel’s been up to, though there’s every chance she won’t tell us or that she’ll get word back to his associates or killers that we’re looking. As for the ink, I have no idea what that has to do with anything, though I can research it if there’s time.”
”So helpful.” Kolratheth was a dark rumble in her left hand. Blythe just mentally rolled her eyes.
She still held the crow clutched in one hand, its wings trapped beneath her finger and its legs swinging limp. It had stopped struggling sometime during the car ride over, but it was still very much alert, its neck erect and black eyes shining.
Blythe would have disposed of it already, but there really hadn’t been enough privacy under the wide, clear windshield of her car or in the alley with Adri. And she hadn’t yet fallen so far as to consume small proto-demons with all their mess and noise in front of her coworkers. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing that would foster good company bonding—especially not when one of them was a literal angel.
“And yet, you use your hell-given abilities in front of them.” Kolratheth was basically slavering, pooling so heavily in the hand that held the crow that he was beginning to turn her fingers purple.
There is something to be said for being useful. Besides, even growing claws and sharp teeth is less… visceral than watching someone who ought to be mortal consume a demonic soul.
”Hmph. Then when will you be done here? I won’t wait forever.” Of course, Blythe knew that already. Her demon’s craving was coming through so strongly that she was starting to look forward to crow for dinner.
Instead of answering him, Blythe forced her attention back on the room around them, taking in the once ink-stained body. She’d never heard of Fazel, but she knew Gretchen Colter, at least… professionally. It would be extremely difficult to forget the person who’d sold her the book that had summoned Kolratheth.
“I think I can get us in to speak to Colter if that’s the path we want to take. She’ll probably know what Fazel’s been up to, though there’s every chance she won’t tell us or that she’ll get word back to his associates or killers that we’re looking. As for the ink, I have no idea what that has to do with anything, though I can research it if there’s time.”
”So helpful.” Kolratheth was a dark rumble in her left hand. Blythe just mentally rolled her eyes.
It might be nice to group everyone up again.
It is a rainy day, after all.
The Basics:
-Advanced writer
-No slice of life.
-No established worlds. Come ready to build one.
-Preference for FxF when writing romance, but can play any gender/sentient being/creature. Assume multiple characters.
-Partners must be over 21 (For general mature content. I can take or leave detailed sex scenes.)
-Preference for Google Docs (I'll share my email so you don't have to.)
Stuff I'm into these days:
Post-apocalypse, but it's been a few thousand years
Fantasy built on the bones of a more ancient civilization
Dreamscape/Surrealism
The absurd, frightening, wild, beautiful
Old school creepy fairytales/myths
Morally gray stories and characters
Stuff I'm not currently looking for: Sci-fi, Military fiction/fantasy/sci-fi
Ideally, I'll collect one additional long-term partner with an established voice and an interest in some deep world-building. If you'd like to be that person, send me a writing sample. (Unless we've written together before.)
The Basics:
-Advanced writer
-No slice of life.
-No established worlds. Come ready to build one.
-Preference for FxF when writing romance, but can play any gender/sentient being/creature. Assume multiple characters.
-Partners must be over 21 (For general mature content. I can take or leave detailed sex scenes.)
-Preference for Google Docs (I'll share my email so you don't have to.)
Stuff I'm into these days:
Post-apocalypse, but it's been a few thousand years
Fantasy built on the bones of a more ancient civilization
Dreamscape/Surrealism
The absurd, frightening, wild, beautiful
Old school creepy fairytales/myths
Morally gray stories and characters
Stuff I'm not currently looking for: Sci-fi, Military fiction/fantasy/sci-fi
Ideally, I'll collect one additional long-term partner with an established voice and an interest in some deep world-building. If you'd like to be that person, send me a writing sample. (Unless we've written together before.)
Yep! It’s Blythe’s now
Blythe’s hand closed around Adri’s wrist, her eyes on the little cup beneath it. “You have no idea what that could do with your blood! It could mean your life! Maybe all our lives, if it can possess you. This is why we need a more thorough training course for the goddess-damned Sunday Group! Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
The crow cawed from above them, it's claws tearing out a few hairs as it swooped past and readied itself to dive again. Blythe’s pulse throbbed in her ears, Kolratheth waking back up in her chest as a response to her fear and anger. Heat and pain flooded her eyes, her gums, her fingertips. Black spooled across her eyes and her teeth elongated. Her nails grew into claws. She had to let go of Adri to keep from hurting her.
“No, hurt her. Claw them all!”
Adri just didn’t get it. The least horrible thing the pair was likely intending was to ward their nest against police. They could be planning that blood for rituals, for possession, for curse—
Blythe growled. Of fucking course. The cop was curseproof. No wonder she wasn’t worried.
In a movement more born out of spite than need, Blythe reached up and snatched the idiot creature out of the air as it dove at Adri’s head. It battered her with its wings, screaming and desperate until she managed to pin it in place beneath black tipped fingers. The homeless man whimpered, falling back against the wall, unable to move his eyes from his bird.
Blythe sighed. Now she just felt like a brute. What is this thing?
“A parasite,” Kolratheth sighed. “To lowly a thing to be considered a demon. It feeds off its host slowly in exchange for a little safety, and then hybernates for a time before taking a new shape and finding a new human host. Eat it. It would sustain me for days.”
What would happen to the host?
“He would go mad, most likely. What does it matter? He is of no use to your species. And the parasite will consume all the parts that make him human eventually.”
Can you make it give back whatever it’s taken from him?
“No. It hasn’t taken much. Only memory. The human might even be able to relearn how to use his voice, if he isn’t too far gone. It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone manage it."
Blythe ran her tongue over her teeth, and finding them only slightly pointed, grinned. There was no point in trying to play with any emotions now. The homeless man was already frightened enough. “Adri, if you would be so good as to let me borrow your clipboard….”
The homeless man—homeless boy, really— took it when Blythe thrust the clipboard at him, though he nearly dropped it. He couldn’t seem to remember what to do with his hands, so Blythe amended her earlier assessment and turned down the fear pinging through his head. Just a touch. She was calming down too, the black fading from her fingers though the ache lingered in the space behind her eyes. They were usually the last to turn.
The bird squirmed in her grip, but stilled when she tightened her fist around it. “Draw everything you saw last night. Include details like sizes and times and sounds.”
When he gave it back, Blythe only got a vague impression of scratchy figures with wide, blank eyes before she thrust the clipboard back at Adri and got an elbow up to block the homeless boy’s grab for the crow. He fell back against the wall immediately.
“Uh uh. This thing is incredibly bad for you. Here—“ she fished out a couple more bills and shoved them at him. “Catch a taxi. There’s a shelter on 5th and Cesar Chavez with a half-decent therapist. Let her help you get yourself back and don’t go accepting deals from strange creatures any more.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Yeah, well. She turned on her heel and purposely kicked over the little cup of Adri’s blood. “Come on. Let’s get back to the others.”
The crow cawed from above them, it's claws tearing out a few hairs as it swooped past and readied itself to dive again. Blythe’s pulse throbbed in her ears, Kolratheth waking back up in her chest as a response to her fear and anger. Heat and pain flooded her eyes, her gums, her fingertips. Black spooled across her eyes and her teeth elongated. Her nails grew into claws. She had to let go of Adri to keep from hurting her.
“No, hurt her. Claw them all!”
Adri just didn’t get it. The least horrible thing the pair was likely intending was to ward their nest against police. They could be planning that blood for rituals, for possession, for curse—
Blythe growled. Of fucking course. The cop was curseproof. No wonder she wasn’t worried.
In a movement more born out of spite than need, Blythe reached up and snatched the idiot creature out of the air as it dove at Adri’s head. It battered her with its wings, screaming and desperate until she managed to pin it in place beneath black tipped fingers. The homeless man whimpered, falling back against the wall, unable to move his eyes from his bird.
Blythe sighed. Now she just felt like a brute. What is this thing?
“A parasite,” Kolratheth sighed. “To lowly a thing to be considered a demon. It feeds off its host slowly in exchange for a little safety, and then hybernates for a time before taking a new shape and finding a new human host. Eat it. It would sustain me for days.”
What would happen to the host?
“He would go mad, most likely. What does it matter? He is of no use to your species. And the parasite will consume all the parts that make him human eventually.”
Can you make it give back whatever it’s taken from him?
“No. It hasn’t taken much. Only memory. The human might even be able to relearn how to use his voice, if he isn’t too far gone. It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone manage it."
Blythe ran her tongue over her teeth, and finding them only slightly pointed, grinned. There was no point in trying to play with any emotions now. The homeless man was already frightened enough. “Adri, if you would be so good as to let me borrow your clipboard….”
The homeless man—homeless boy, really— took it when Blythe thrust the clipboard at him, though he nearly dropped it. He couldn’t seem to remember what to do with his hands, so Blythe amended her earlier assessment and turned down the fear pinging through his head. Just a touch. She was calming down too, the black fading from her fingers though the ache lingered in the space behind her eyes. They were usually the last to turn.
The bird squirmed in her grip, but stilled when she tightened her fist around it. “Draw everything you saw last night. Include details like sizes and times and sounds.”
When he gave it back, Blythe only got a vague impression of scratchy figures with wide, blank eyes before she thrust the clipboard back at Adri and got an elbow up to block the homeless boy’s grab for the crow. He fell back against the wall immediately.
“Uh uh. This thing is incredibly bad for you. Here—“ she fished out a couple more bills and shoved them at him. “Catch a taxi. There’s a shelter on 5th and Cesar Chavez with a half-decent therapist. Let her help you get yourself back and don’t go accepting deals from strange creatures any more.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Yeah, well. She turned on her heel and purposely kicked over the little cup of Adri’s blood. “Come on. Let’s get back to the others.”
Honestly, if she were going to pick between hunting down a homeless man or scoping out an closed auction house, Blythe would have picked the auction house. She understood. If anyone were going to convince some random, likely half-scared-shitless guy to talk, it would be Kolratheth. Still, she would always be first and foremost a librarian, and there was no telling what treasures of scholarship might lie hidden within those storage shelves, far away from the more deserving eyes of academia.
If you want to so badly, come back at night. I could get you in.” In the aftermath of their run-in with the pharmacy manager, the demon sounded petulant. Like a lover who had wanted three great orgasms and gotten one mediocre one instead. “Maybe there will even be a guard to deal with.”
Somehow, Blythe couldn’t see herself turning cat burglar. Even if it was for the sake of knowledge.
”You’d do it to find Leone Cordova’s murderers.”
And like that, the grief was back. A downpour. A yoke of stone. She could feel it in the muscles of her forearms and between her shoulder blades like deep-tissue ache. She will never be back. She died alone, and in pain. An endless atrophying wound. And beneath it? An even greater rage.
Perhaps she was not a librarian first and foremost after all.
Blythe swallowed, adjusted her blouse, and beckoned to Adri. “Come on. Time for more good cop, bad demon.”
It wasn’t difficult to find the homeless man’s camp behind the dumpsters in the ally where Alcander and Teajay had found the strange, ancient dagger. It smelled vile—little more than a pile of discarded clothes and an overturned shopping cart. It was abandoned for the moment, but had obviously been recently inhabited.
She turned away, heading in the opposite direction of North Wells Street towards the near-empty parking lot shared by the pharmacy and a few other small businesses. The far side opened into yet another alley, this one behind an Olive Garden, and was home to two particularly ripe dumpsters. The homeless man hadn’t yet made a new camp there, but there was someone leaning at the far end of the alley, holding a cardboard sign and smiling awkwardly at people walking past on the sidewalk.
Blythe had a feeling that this might just be who they were looking for. She reached into her purse and palmed a couple tens as they approached. The man turned—she hadn’t been trying to be quiet and the click of her heels rang loud against the brick walls ringing the alley—and smiled uncertainly. He had all his teeth, though they were crooked, and his skin was an uncomfortable pink beneath a crop of unkempt red hair receding from his forehead—more likely from malnutrition than age. She put him somewhere between 19 and 22. He was skinny and nervous, and Blythe had the sinking feeling that he would tell them whatever he thought was most likely to make them happy.
She dropped the first ten in his hands. “Something weird happened by the auction house last night. Wanna tell us about it for the paper?”
If you want to so badly, come back at night. I could get you in.” In the aftermath of their run-in with the pharmacy manager, the demon sounded petulant. Like a lover who had wanted three great orgasms and gotten one mediocre one instead. “Maybe there will even be a guard to deal with.”
Somehow, Blythe couldn’t see herself turning cat burglar. Even if it was for the sake of knowledge.
”You’d do it to find Leone Cordova’s murderers.”
And like that, the grief was back. A downpour. A yoke of stone. She could feel it in the muscles of her forearms and between her shoulder blades like deep-tissue ache. She will never be back. She died alone, and in pain. An endless atrophying wound. And beneath it? An even greater rage.
Perhaps she was not a librarian first and foremost after all.
Blythe swallowed, adjusted her blouse, and beckoned to Adri. “Come on. Time for more good cop, bad demon.”
It wasn’t difficult to find the homeless man’s camp behind the dumpsters in the ally where Alcander and Teajay had found the strange, ancient dagger. It smelled vile—little more than a pile of discarded clothes and an overturned shopping cart. It was abandoned for the moment, but had obviously been recently inhabited.
She turned away, heading in the opposite direction of North Wells Street towards the near-empty parking lot shared by the pharmacy and a few other small businesses. The far side opened into yet another alley, this one behind an Olive Garden, and was home to two particularly ripe dumpsters. The homeless man hadn’t yet made a new camp there, but there was someone leaning at the far end of the alley, holding a cardboard sign and smiling awkwardly at people walking past on the sidewalk.
Blythe had a feeling that this might just be who they were looking for. She reached into her purse and palmed a couple tens as they approached. The man turned—she hadn’t been trying to be quiet and the click of her heels rang loud against the brick walls ringing the alley—and smiled uncertainly. He had all his teeth, though they were crooked, and his skin was an uncomfortable pink beneath a crop of unkempt red hair receding from his forehead—more likely from malnutrition than age. She put him somewhere between 19 and 22. He was skinny and nervous, and Blythe had the sinking feeling that he would tell them whatever he thought was most likely to make them happy.
She dropped the first ten in his hands. “Something weird happened by the auction house last night. Wanna tell us about it for the paper?”
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