by Jill Archer
Ouch.
I glanced at Sasha and Tosca to see how they were taking the news. Tosca grinned recklessly. Sasha scribbled furiously.
“Charles called Maahes, the demon who had blessed his marriage.” Rochester said. “Maahes is a war demon. He isn’t quite old enough to have fought in the battle of Armageddon, but almost. You’ve probably heard of him by his other name—Lord of the Slaughter.”
Sasha pinched the bridge of his nose. Tosca paled.
“Despite his moniker,” Rochester continued, “he is not known to be violent, unless he is called upon to protect the sanctity of the marital bed. Maahes has been known to inflict horrible punishments on those who break their wedding vows, and upon anyone who incites such a breach.
“Charles’ love for his new bride trumped his sense of betrayal, however, and he asked Maahes to spare Clara. But he was not so forgiving of her lover. Maahes was more than happy to massacre Amberworth on Charles’ behalf, but at the last second, Amberworth called Asmodai to defend him.”
Rochester paused, giving everyone a chance to consider the case. “Who is Asmodai?” he asked. “Mr. de Rocca?”
“The Demon of Infidelity?”
“No. Mr. Kaolin?”
“Is he the ‘Corruptor’?”
Rochester shook his head, disappointed. “Read and memorize the Demon Register,” he snapped. “Mr. Carmine?”
I turned to Ari, along with the rest of the class. Ari leaned back in his chair, his long legs sprawled under the desk, his hands folded gently in his lap. He was the picture of unperturbed. And yet… Under the surface tension of our collective signatures, I felt an energetic hum. A thin cord of magic stretched between Rochester and Ari. Ari had said I was a good receiver, but I could barely sense the cord. It was like a shadow, a mere outline of whatever passed between Rochester and Ari.
“The Demon of Lust,” Ari finally said.
Rochester nodded and continued lecturing.
Apparently, Asmodai was as adamant as Maahes that his follower’s position was correct. Rochester snatched some papers off of his lectern and started reading.
“From Asmodai’s statement,” he said. “‘Look at Clara. She is the embodiment of robust femininity, ripe and lush. Who wouldn’t want to ravish her? To worship her—and Me—by engaging in sexual relations with her?’”
Rochester pulled a picture of Clara out of the file and held it up for the class. Clara was indeed ripe and lush.
I pleaded to Luck that my cheeks would stay pale. Thank the absent lord I would not be assigned a client in this case! Dealing with a woman like Clara, one who was so overtly sexual, so blithely fertile, would be difficult enough. But it would be doubly difficult to deal with Asmodai, who I suspected was a misogynist. I sighed to myself. These would be the peculiar challenges of being a female Maegester though and the sooner I got used to them the better. Halja’s demons (and many of their followers) were randy beasts and it wouldn’t serve to get pink cheeks every time there was a case involving bawdy behavior, buxom women, or behaviors that led to breeding and lots of it.
“Thoughts, anyone?” Rochester arched an eyebrow and looked around the room. No one volunteered. I was aware of Maahes’ reputation. He was a powerful demon. Asmodai was a demon I wasn’t familiar with, but based on his overly confident statement, he would likely be formidable. I didn’t want to make yesterday’s mistake of underestimating how difficult it would be to subdue quarreling demons.
Rochester paced in front of us.
“Ms. Onyx? You’ve been quiet today. Think this one can be resolved with sacrifices?”
I shook my head. Gut instinct told me no. Unlike the demons involved in the Lethe case, the demons here were in direct opposition to one another. Maahes was the protector of marriage vows; Asmodai the instigator of extramarital affairs. I thought I might start with thrashing the Hyrkes for being stupid but I could hardly say that.
“The demons would have to be forcefully controlled,” I said reluctantly.
Rochester nodded. “Would you be able to control the Demon of Lust, Nouiomo?” His intimate tone and use of my birth name implied a deeper meaning. I supposed he was referring to his suspicions about Ari and me.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I said dryly.
Beside me, Ari cleared his throat and looked down at the desk. If class wasn’t such a serious setting, I might have thought he was laughing.
Rochester grunted, but moved on.
“Mr. Kaolin, you’ll represent the husband and Mr. de Rocca, the lover. I want a preliminary outline of how you’re going to handle the client interview on my desk by tomorrow.” Tosca nodded and Sasha scribbled a final note.
“I saved the last assignment for the Primoris and Secundus positions because these positions will be representing demons directly. There are no Hyrkes in this case. That may be to your benefit, Ms. Onyx,” Rochester said sotto voce, “since you will be forced to focus exclusively on the demons’ problems. On the other hand, it may be to your detriment, because this case will test every bit of your manipulative ability.”
Disgruntled murmurs that Ari and I were representing demons sounded throughout the room, but no one complained outright. I supposed, at this point, those who had already been assigned a case were realizing how hard it would be. No one would have seriously considered trading assignments with us, had that option even been offered.
“Are you familiar with Nergal, Ms. Onyx?” Rochester asked.
I nodded. I was, but not because I had read the Demon Register.
“He’s the Demon of Pestilence,” I said, practically spitting the words out. Nergal was also the Demon of Brushfires, Locusts, and Drought. He was the Patron of Midsummer Death. His favorite dying time—nouiomo, or high noon.
I’d never liked Nergal. He seemed piggish. Why couldn’t he leave the dying times to winter? Why did he have to come in and claim the height of a season that was otherwise known for its abundance of life? I erased my sour expression and refocused on Rochester’s case explanation.
“Nergal is married. Has anyone read enough of the Register to know who to?”
To my surprise, Mercator raised his hand. He hadn’t said much during the earlier discussions.
“Lamia,” Mercator said quietly. “She’s one of the oldest known demons. No one knows when she was born. Rumor has it she crawled out of a well. She herself propagates that myth. A few centuries ago, she circulated a rumor that her parents were Nethuns and Babilu.”
“Nethuns?” Brunus interrupted. “The Patron Demon of Wells?”
“The Patron Demon of Poisoned Wells,” Sasha clarified, looking smug.
“And Babilu?” Brunus asked. “Who’s that?”
Rochester leaned on his desk, folded his arms across his chest, and let the discussion take its own course. Mercator took the lead.
“Long before the Apocalypse, there was a Babylon. It didn’t look anything like it does today. It was mostly fields, some scattered homesteads, and a fort.”
“How do you know?” Brunus asked.
“Because I read more than just what I’m assigned,” Mercator said. Brunus rolled his eyes but shut up. Mercator continued.
“Babilu was Babylon’s demoness protector. The story Lamia tells is that her mother succumbed to the advances of Nethuns and, as a result, Babylon’s well was poisoned. The price for her indiscretion was a weakened Host and the bloodbath of Armageddon. Lamia says Babilu died on the field beside Lucifer just after she was born.”
“But demons are spawned from the ground,” Tosca said. “They don’t have parents.”
“Of course not,” Mercator said with exaggerated patience. “Lamia’s birth story is a metaphor. Old Babylon was a virgin, spoiled by the ravages of war, her well—or womb—poisoned by invasion.”
“Lamia’s husband wants a divorce,” Rochester said, bringing the discussion back around to the case.
“But demons don’t divorce,” Tosca said. “They mate for life.” He seemed triply put out f
or having been doubly confused in the span of a single minute.
But I’d heard the same thing about the demons’ marital practices. With regulare demons, it was always about the rules. A promise is a promise. There was no reneging. Unless both parties wanted out…
“Does Lamia want a divorce?” I asked.
“No,” said Rochester. He stared grimly at me. “She was livid with Nergal for contacting the Council for representation. We had to send an upper year out to calm her down just so the matter could be assigned. But these types of cases are what you’ll be expected to handle in the field, so if you can’t do it…”
Rochester let his words hang, leaving his sentence unfinished. But I knew. If I couldn’t control my client, I wouldn’t pass Manipulation, and if I didn’t pass Manipulation, I’d end up like those poor missing Mederies. The monstrously powerful, enormously old, and rarely seen demons who sat on the Demon Council wouldn’t think twice about executing a young, ineffective Maegester for everyone’s sake. The future of Halja depended on having Maegesters who could keep the peace. And if I couldn’t, I would be considered just as rogue as the rogare demons.
“We can handle it,” Ari said. I wasn’t as sure but I wisely kept my mouth shut.
“Good,” Rochester said crisply. “You’ll represent Lamia and Ms. Onyx will represent Nergal.”
Rochester walked back to his lectern and addressed his final comments to the entire class.
“Mr. Kaolin was correct. There is no divorce available for demons unless both sides unequivocally agree. There may be a separation, and that separation may be prolonged, but it cannot be permanent. And, as always, for all of these matters, there can be no lasting ill will or animosity between demons once your representation ends.”
No lasting ill will between two creatures with vengeful natures and nothing but a mile of bad blood between them? As Darius Dorio would say: Sunt facta verbis difficiliora. Easier said than done.
Chapter 13
They say Wednesday’s child is full of woe. No kidding.
Wednesday was my third day of Manipulation. Ari had warned me that, every Wednesday, Rochester took the first year MIT’s down to the basement in Rickard for magic practice. To say I had conflicted emotions regarding these practice sessions was as much of an understatement as saying the Apocalypse had changed things. I still wanted no part of my waning magic, but I knew it was probably best if I started learning how to use it. So this morning, with equal parts dread, anticipation, and curiosity, I found myself clamoring down a narrow, rickety, metal staircase that felt like it was going to come loose from its mountings at any minute.
The stairs were only wide enough for one person. Rochester took the lead, followed by us in the order of our class rankings, which meant Ari was in front of me and Mercator was behind me. I was thankful not to have to descend the wobbly stairs with either Brunus, Sasha, or Tosca at my back but it was the last break I’d get that morning.
When we reached the bottom we clustered around Rochester, who was the only one with a light. He’d lit a fireball so we could see in this Luck forsaken hellhole of a place. The air felt cold, damp, and expectant, like a winter cloud teetering on the razor’s edge between rain and snow. Even though we were in a basement, there was nothing moldy or musty feeling about this place. Stepping onto the floor had given me a bracing jolt. Maybe it was hitting solid stone after descending what had seemed like an endless number of unsure steps; maybe it was an echo of old magic finally finding a live (albeit unwilling) receiver in me.
I rubbed my arms for warmth and wondered why Ari had told me to leave my cloak behind. We continued following Rochester as he made his way deeper into the basement. The corridor turned and twisted so many times I couldn’t help thinking of it as an underground version of the Rabbit Warren.
Finally, Rochester led us into what felt like a large room. Sound reverberation lessened and echoes increased and the edges of his circle of light no longer reflected off of walls.
Suddenly I felt his signature heat up, and then—whoosh—fire raced through the room. But it landed in the most contained and controlled place I could have imagined: wall torches.
We were in an area that was roughly two hundred feet square and at least twenty feet high. On the far wall were chains, enough for at least a half-dozen prisoners. On the wall closest to us were weapons: swords, knives, daggers, maces, pickaxes, and hammers. It looked like an old dungeon but I couldn’t—or didn’t want to—imagine why St. Lucifer’s Law School would have a dungeon in the basement of its administrative building.
As ominous as the room was though, I had to admit it was the perfect place to practice waning magic. No fire would burn uncontrollably for long down here. And no Hyrke would accidentally walk in on a training session and get himself killed.
Whether I was equally at risk for accidentally getting myself killed was a question I didn’t dare dwell on.
“A brief review,” Rochester said, clearing his throat, “for those who added this class late.”
The groans I would have expected from Sasha or Brunus upstairs were conspicuously absent. Instead, they stood tensely, expectantly. I felt the uptick in everyone’s signature, like a cat’s ears twitching at the first sound of movement. My body and magic followed the others’ lead.
“A Mederi’s oath is ‘First do no harm.’ With Maegesters, it’s the opposite. You must learn how to harm a demon if you’re going to be able to control them. Rogare demons, and even some regulare demons, will never respect you, listen to you, or be controlled by you, if you can’t harm them.
“The type of cases you will be assigned when you graduate—ahem, if you graduate,” Rochester looked straight at me, “will depend on many things. Among them are how strong your magic is, how well you can manipulate it, how well you can use it to control demons, and how strong the demons are that you can control.”
Okay… all that seemed pretty straightforward, except for the part that I didn’t want to do any of it.
“Ms. Onyx,” Rochester called. I snapped to attention.
“What is one of the easiest ways to control something?”
“Overpower it,” I said without hesitation. Every kid knew that one. Might makes right and all that. I didn’t believe it, but it was the answer Rochester was looking for.
“And how exactly do you overpower a demon?”
I had no idea. Wasn’t this class supposed to teach me that?
“Use a weapon?” I said, taking inspiration from the completely unsubtle array of weapons on the wall closest to us.
“And which weapon would you choose?” Rochester motioned to the wall behind him.
Beside me, Ari stiffened. Was the question a trap? I considered the weapons on the wall carefully.
I’d never studied Apocalypse-era weapons before. I had no idea what sort of damage they could do, how to wield them, or which one I would choose if I were to go up against a demon. In fact, as bad as I was at controlling it, there was only one thing I’d use.
“My magic,” I said.
Rochester’s mouth quirked. “Perhaps… Mr. Olivine, choose your weapon and take the south position.”
I felt Brunus’ signature swell. He turned to me and smiled. It was the most chilling smile I’d ever seen. Suddenly I knew he’d pay me back for the bloody nose—and more.
“A reminder to the rest of the class…” This time Rochester looked directly at Ari, “No interference during a sparring match.”
Brunus selected something that looked like a cross between a hammer and a pick. Rochester called it a nadziak. When Brunus pulled it off the wall, Ari’s signature ticked up a notch. Why was Rochester having us pick out actual weapons if our magic was the best weapon we had? How would using real weapons help us to learn how to control our magic? But class wasn’t optional. I couldn’t just sit out or pass.
Again I studied the weapons debating which to choose.
“Go for the bullwhip and for Luck’s sake, Noon,” Ari said, “don’t l
et him get near you.”
“Mr. Carmine,” Rochester’s voice boomed in the cavernous space. “There will be no more warnings. Any further tips for Ms. Onyx and you will be asked to wait outside.”
Ari didn’t even acknowledge Rochester. He squeezed my arm as I walked past, his face tight, his body tense. I pulled the bullwhip off the wall (thank Luck I knew what it looked like… if Ari had suggested I choose the nadziak before I’d heard Rochester call it that, I would have had no idea what he was talking about). I placed the handle in my right hand and turned toward Rochester.
“Begin,” he said.
Wha—? Really? I looked down at the bullwhip in my hand and almost laughed. I couldn’t even imagine using this thing. But when I looked up and saw Brunus’ face, I knew he suffered from no such qualms. A second later his magic hit me. A blast that seemed hard enough to string my teeth and tie them around my neck. It knocked me off of my feet and onto the floor. I shook my head and felt my jaw to make sure it was still attached. Toward my left, someone laughed. Sasha probably, but my ears seemed clogged so I couldn’t be sure. I raised my torso and leaned on my elbows, looking for Brunus. His blast had blurred my eyesight as well.
I felt Brunus’ next blast before it hit me. I realized he was shaping his magic like the weapon he’d chosen. His last blast must have hit me with the hammer end. This time, his nadziak-shaped magic came slashing through the air toward me pick end first. The impact would have been scarily effective—if my magic wasn’t naturally stronger than his. Instinctively, I threw up a shield. It kept his magic from reaching me, but not him. He towered over me, the real nadziak raised in one hand. I scurried back across the floor like a crab beetle. I would have thought it belittling but for the fact that I was starting to think Rochester really would just let this play out. And one look at Brunus told me he really wanted to use that nadziak on me. Suddenly, a sliver of bright shiny fear pierced through me. Until now, I’d been thinking of this practice session as I’d had all my other classes. But it couldn’t be more different. I realized then that Maegesters-in-Training had likely died in this room. Maybe many of them.