“If I had been there, mon abeille, it most certainly would not have been lost.” I say, a smirk on my face as my own cup of tea hovers just over my lips. “I do have a few scrolls from their collection in my private archives, though.”
“Show me.”
The Parish Centre for Our Lady of Mercy was, in essence, rebuilt in 1976 after a troll brawl collapsed a portion of the tunnel that connected to the building. Deg’Doriel had been furious at the time, as before that, it was one of the oldest buildings in the city. We had to blame the whole incident on a sinkhole and rally the parishioners for funds to rebuild it. Now, as I look at the outdated layout and overly scrubbed linoleum floors, I think perhaps it is time for another brawl to destroy the building.
I do not wish for the group to cease meeting, just that I am tired of staring at these same wood-panelled walls outside Deg’Doriel’s office, where pictures of all his past skin suits are lined up in chronological order like a shrine to every man of god he has ever corrupted. There are a few hours yet until we have to move down into the basement recreation room for our group meeting, but I want to have a discussion with our leader, and with my friend.
The shrill voice of Margie Lawson rises as she cackles at something Deg’Doriel has said. Whatever it is I am sure it is not a joke and that he was serious. The door handle clicks suddenly and the laughter echoes around the building and threatens my ears’ safety. I blink as if that will stop the terrible sound, but soon enough Margie is speaking to me.
“Mr. Ravenscroft, I hope you haven’t been waiting long! Fr. Doug and I had to go over last month’s minutes before the meeting next week,” she says.
Had to go over or had to quiz him on them to make sure he was listening?
“I have no other engagements, so it was no bother to me, Ms. Lawson. Have a good evening.” I end the conversation before she can go into a discussion about her birds.
Usually, I would not mind a discussion about animals. Still, Margie enjoys teaching her parrots different bible verses and I have never heard of a more annoying and boring hobby in my long life.
Deg stands in the door, looking almost ashen, while he waits for her to be all the way down the hall. Gods forbid the woman turn around and try to continue a conversation with us.
“I swear, there are times I believe that woman is an agent of Lucifer sent to spy on me,” he sighs, closing the door behind me as I enter. Quickly, he sheds his human skin and unclips his white collar. His tail does not flick or move before he collapses in his chair. “Did you know that we have been experiencing a three percent year-on-year growth in Sunday collections despite the national average being a seven percent loss?”
“And I am sure it is all thanks to your rousing sermons,” I smirk, but my friend throws his head back and sighs again. “Would you like to discuss what ails you? You are practically grey.”
“No,” he grunts. “I have been overextending my abilities recently. Do I actually look grey?”
His head swivels back up quickly, and his clawed hands are digging around for his phone. For a moment, I watch Deg’Doriel assess his hellish appearance on his phone and then he puts it away. The demon has always been a bit vain. Like myself, he likes to put forward a very specific appearance. When we first met at a dinner hosted by the great Cosimo de Medici, he was wearing the suit of a cardinal from Florence, and I was simply a patron of the arts. Deg’Doriel still dawns that suit when he needs to appear a bit more regal.
“No,” I concede. “Now, shall we talk about why you lied two weeks ago? Or shall I, your oldest friend, remain in the dark?”
His eyes flick to mine and his horns catch in the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, shining a bit more brilliantly. His scent is subtle and he is actively trying to keep it that way. Whatever secrets he is keeping are either of a divine nature or something so earth-shattering it would rip the fabric of space and time if he told me. While he may claim that the others gossip and natter, he thrives off secrets. Where I search for the truth and knowledge in others, Deg’Doriel lives for lies and admissions of guilt. The only thing steadier in his life than our weekly Tuesday meetings, are his Wednesday confession hearings. I have seen more than my fair share of souls lost to that ornate box of his.
The fact that he is keeping one himself simply makes me hunger all the more. I raise an eyebrow at him as I wait for his response.
“It is a secret that I can’t share and may never share if the time does not come. Just keep your little human to yourself.”
“Slightly difficult, seeing as Nicolette has been introduced to her and the siren was enamoured, to say the least.”
“You are the reason I drink,” he groans, dragging his mitt-sized hands over his face. “Speaking of, do you want anything, or did you bring it with you?”
“I abhor thermoses, Deg, you know this. Fresh is the best way to consume any tea, even the cheap nonsense your parishioners drink.”
“Fine, fine, fine.” He pulls a flask from his jacket and takes a long swig. “So now that you don’t fucking reek of sex, tell me about your human.”
We have made no plans for Joanna to meet the trusted few of the group this week, and I have already decided that when she answers my call after this meeting, I will be going to her office and dragging her home by her hair if I must. She surely cannot keep this pace up.
She has spent more time with this human called Lance in the past week than she has with me. He seems to act like her shadow. A scuttling, annoying shadow that asks too many questions. It seems he has an ever-increasing interest in making sure the job at the armoury goes well, and that he will do whatever he possibly can to make my Joanna’s life easier. Liaising with contractors, filing work orders, and all sorts of other things that I had no desire to understand until a month ago. If he wanted to make her life easier, he could simply cease to exist for all I cared.
Even now, when I am taking notes, the very thought of him agitates my sands beneath my skin.
It is most certainly not because she speaks so highly of him, fawning over his work and dedication like he is some paragon of capitalistic society.
“I don’t know what I would do without him, I swear,” Joanna says to me, her breath huffing out of her as she rushes to some other site visit. She has not returned to the one across from the library and I am grateful for that small victory. “I’d completely forgotten I’d booked this meeting two weeks ago. Normally everything is on my calendar, but I must have scrolled over it. But I guess ten minutes late is better than totally missing it.”
She should not have to rush anywhere. From what I understand, Joanna’s job is administrative, a people manager. Why on earth would she be attending a meeting about a budget review with clients? Even more, two weeks ago, she was not even at work. Meaning the cretin booked the meeting for her without her knowledge.
“Ravenscroft,” Nora says, snapping her fingers around my head. “You alright?”
I stare at her over my lenses. “Why would I be anything but apathetic to be sitting in this basement every week?”
