1
They call him Wanderer,” the demon strapped to the interrogation table says. “Avenger. Memory-Keeper.” She lets out a slow breath. “Nostringvadha.”
Chester’s ears prick up at the name. He slows to a stop outside the interrogation room, peeking through the one-way mirror. Right now, he’s supposed to be wheeling these biohazard bins of bloodstained knives across the prison to be sterilized, but?—
But he’s ahead of schedule. He can delay for a few minutes, claim that he stopped to check the other rooms for wayward blades.
Anything for a new scrap of intel about Nostringvadha.
On the other side of the glass, Adrian Nostrand is methodically laying his instruments out on the small table next to him. He’s not even sparing a glance at the demon, but Chester knows better than anyone that Nostrand is listening to every word—and deducing how to use them against her. It’s a useful quality in an interrogator and a nerve-wracking one in an instructor, as Chester learned the hard way when he was Nostrand’s student.
“Your god,” his former mentor says now, placing his hammer just within eyeshot of his prisoner.
“One of many,” the demon says. According to the binder in the wall-mounted container next to the interrogation room’s door, her name—her human name, at least—is Alexis. But Chester tries not to think about them by their names too often. “But our dearest god. Our fondest god. Our mostbelovedgod. He stole the Fount of Blessings from the gods’ inner realm to present to his people as a gift, and in their fury, the other gods banished him to Earth forever. They laid a curse upon him that would’ve destroyed a lesser demon on the spot, and they cursed this dimension so any demon who joined him here would never be able to return to Tamaros.”
Nostrand’s lips curve as he examines one of his knives. “Pretty harsh punishment for a minor mistake.”
Alexis scoffs. “You laugh, hunter, but Nostringvadha was our only benevolent god. His absence is a raw wound in every demon’s soul back in Tamaros. And here on Earth…” She trails off. “Nostringvadha walks among us. We know he does. We just don’t know where.”
Instantly, Chester’s thoughts snap to a particular demon in Redwater, one who’s been instrumental in luring two hunters—two of Chester’sfriends—away from the Sanctum. He holds his breath and prays that Nostrand keeps Alexis talking.
“How would you even know?” Nostrand’s voice is bland and disinterested, but Chester can tell that he’s slowly homing in on a certain line of questioning. “Wouldn’t he just look like any other demon?”
“That’s the point,” Alexis says. “Wecan’tknow. If he wants to evade the prying eyes of the hunters and the other gods, then he has to remain hidden in plain sight, clothed in human flesh like the rest of us.”
“Well, there has to be some way to find him,” Nostrand says. “Can’t you just cast a tracking spell?”
Alexis laughs. “If only it were that simple. No, Nostringvadha was in this dimension for millennia before any other demons were summoned here. He knows every spell, every trick, every hiding place. He’s inscrutable. Untraceable. Like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.”
Sighing, Chester turns away. The demon isn’t saying anything he doesn’t already know, and she’s certainly not saying anything about a way to test if Obadiah Smith really is the god of legend.
It’s a sobering thought. Chester has pored over Smith’s file, and all the little details check out: he’s been on Earth since before recorded history began, so at least five thousand years; he’s powerful enough that his mere proximity elevates the Redwater Sanctum’s threat level to yellow; he’s infuriatingly difficult to locate beyond his brazen public appearances at the town’s ubiquitous food trucks?—
But, then again, Magdalena Khan also fits most of those parameters. So do nearly half a dozen other demons in Redwater.
As far as Chester is concerned, though, Smith is different. He just can’t prove it yet. Grimacing, he starts to push his cart down the hall again.
“But someonedidfind him,” Nostrand says, and Chester stops dead. “The first hunters. They tracked him down and used a spell to bind him.”
Alexis looks disgusted at the reminder. “Yes,” she says, venom dripping off the word. “You did, didn’t you?”
Nostrand smiles placidly back. “We did. But no one else has managed it since then.”
Alexis smiles with all her teeth. “Nostringvadha always triumphs in the end.”
“Apparently,” Nostrand agrees lightly. “That was, what, fifteen thousand years ago?”
“Give or take a millennium. Nostringvadha’s cunning and perseverance have long since kept him hidden. And few humans dare to wield that binding spell, passed down through generations of hunters as a companion to magic-weavers.”
Chester’s heart slams against his ribcage. That sounds conspicuously similar toThe Magic-Weaver’s Companion,an ancient spell book that houses incantations without printed counterspells or written warnings—one that only the most advanced spellcasters would ever consider using.
And it’s located right here in the Redwater Sanctum. Chester’s friend Roma actually used it during her ill-fated mission to trick Esmeralda Laguerre into trusting her. In fact, it’s locked up in the restricted spellcasting library just down the hall.
The spell to bind Nostringvadha isjust down the hall?
Evidently, Chester isn’t the only one who recognizes the name. “A companion to magic-weavers,” Nostrand repeats, dragging out the words. “LikeThe Magic-Weaver’s Companion?The spell book?”
“Oh, you know it?” Alexis says innocently. “You should try the spell. I’m sure it won’t backfire horribly on a lesser spellcaster and leave death and disfigurement in its wake.”
