Page 55 of The Misfit Mage and His Dashing Devil

“W-what are you doing?”

“Speeding up the process.” Coating my hand in Diabolic essence, unveiling my true sleek black talons, I pierced the lock and opened the grimoire.

“Quick, which for you, Bezzy, isn’t surprising.”

“Eat me,” I said. “If you knew Walter, you’d know he’ll spend hours examining every intricate detail about the locking mechanism, going on superfluous tangents from the color variation, metals used based on the Mythic era, incantations tied to each gear within, and a thousand other tiny details nobody finds interesting.”

“Hey,” Walter whined. “I find it interesting.”

“Which is tragic but forgivable.” I flipped the leather binding open to the grimoire and slid it toward him.

His studies were among the most thorough I’d encountered during my containment in the repository. Of everyone, he had such a learned nature, joyfully sharing everything he’d gained, like offering the gift of knowledge to all those around him. Never the type to squander or horde such things. That was his downfall. It led him to this path, a path that pushed us together in a misfortunate culmination of events. So many exploited Walter during his years in the repository, something undoubtedly this Ian mage took full advantage of too. If Walter planned on clearing his name and regaining his life, we’d have to fix that fatal flaw before parting.

I’d tasted the pleasure that came with embracing Walter and feeling again. It wasn’t something meant for me, a devil despised by this entire realm, yet I’d indulge those feelings for a time before releasing him. He was too kind for such things. Too kindhearted for me.

“Whoa.” He flipped through the grimoire, jotting notes while simultaneously adjusting his glasses.

I huffed. He had his full-blown entranced nerd mode going on. “Mora, care for a stroll? He’s got his research cap on.”

“Oooh.” She sipped her tea. “I love research.”

“It’s less glamorous than you think,” I said. “Plus, given that fidgety ‘I have to write and read and think and plan face’ he has, it’ll be several hours. We should go. Unless you wish to linger and listen to a thousand half-uttered mutterings.”

“This is an Atlantean sigil which shouldn’t be recorded in any grimoire since merfolk magic is sacred, never disclosed to outsiders. Not to mention, they use a very different method of recording their… Hey!” Walter glared. “I don’t talk in half-uttered mutterings.”

I raised a brow, making a judgy face.

“Much.” He returned to scrawling illegible notes in the half-concocted shorthand scribbles he called words, which only he ever understood. In the repository, he’d have to translate and rewrite them to make it presentable for the archivist practitioners who’d take full credit for his findings. A benefit to finding himself on the outside; he wouldn’t need to take such extra measures.

“So many of these come from different Mythic spell works. Some of these aren’t even incantations, rather framework designs on how their anatomies interact with the physical world when they delve from one pocket realm to the next.”

“Huh?” Mora tilted her head. “Could you elaborate?”

“Don’t,” I attempted to interject as Walter lifted his head, eyes filled with delight. Fuck me. Well, not literally. Walter knew how to pin me down with rambling words until he rode me into submission.

I plopped in a chair, accepting my fate, and did my best to listen attentively. Such hard work.

“Okay, to explain… Most Mythics live in our realm full time.” Walter beamed. He did look so pretty when he smiled sincerely, as opposed to the nervous, slightly cute grin he made when forced. “However, even those who dwell here have pocket realities conjured by the Fae. It’s all dealt through the Fae alliances, their hierarchy meant to establish their superiority to all other beings, which, obviously, not the discussion now—but…”

He rambled on, and I mouthed his brief mentions of his dissertation before winding his way back to the topic at hand. Somehow, I’d memorized his tangents.

“These were put in place eons ago. Dramatic—not eons, but a long time ago. I think even before the Diabolics came into being. Or before they came here.”

Mora smirked at me, and I rolled my eyes. Wrong on both counts, but a discussion for another day. If we opened that box, he’d spend the whole time investigating answers instead of finishing his explanation.

“The purpose, of course, being to provide outs for Mythics not wishing to inhabit or entertain the human realm. That said, these realms aren’t meant for permanent housing. Well, maybe they are. It’s not discussed among the Collective. At least not to apprentices.” Walter took a deep inhale and a slow exhale. “Anyway, Corvine’s grimoire holds spells belonging primarily to Mythics. It’s like he has a book of skeleton keys.”

“So, he definitely acted on Driscoll’s command and is working within this coup. Or was, before I righteously killed him.” I nodded. Corvine’s mind made much more sense now. The cruel depictions he savored deep in his subconscious. They weren’t merely fantasies but recollections of acts of stealing and torturing Mythics to acquire their knowledge. Fucking mages.

“I’m not sure any of this proves Al’s suspicions.”

“Alistair Alden?” Mora asked.

“You know my brother?”

“No.” Mora coughed; cheeks flushed a bit. “Merely heard the name in passing.”

“Dirty girl,” I said in Gaelic, one of the few languages I knew Walter had no ear for since most of his linguistics came from Mythic tongues and a few mortal ones. “What would Kell think of you banging an Alden?”

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