Page 60 of The Misfit Mage and His Dashing Devil

We lay in bed quietly while Wally fidgeted. Desperate to move yet containing himself. His skin practically vibrated against mine and not in a sexy, ‘I want to be fucked again’ kind of way. No. He was back on his typical bullshit—thinking a thousand things that proved impossible for him to properly contain. Considering how exhausted he was and the amount his muscles strained by the third round, I figured he’d relish the relaxation of simply lying in bed. Even my host body was tired, and my eyelids weighed heavily as I nodded off.

Walter twitched the way he often did in the repository, a way of containing his thoughts that made his body move uncontrollably, offering something to say. This silent behavior was meant not to disturb others, but his rustling startled me into a more awake state. His eyes stared at the water stains on the ceiling, searching for answers to things he wouldn’t receive.

I squeezed him tightly, his skin pressed against mine, which should’ve elicited interest, but his mind craved more than his body. With my chest to his back, I stroked his hair before running my hand delicately down his spine and squeezing his cheek, hoping to elicit a fun distraction once more. Instead, his mind and body drifted. The mattress squeaked as he hopped off the bed and shuffled to the far side of the room. Another reminder that meant we were a temporary fixation.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Preparing.” Walter unzipped the book bag and retrieved the massive grimoire. “This is important to unraveling what happened at the Magus Estate. I just know it.”

He plopped back onto the bed, opening it and flipping through the aged parchment. His hand lingered on the first few pages, wanting to stay on them, studying them thoroughly yet again. If Walter had his way, he’d spend hours, perhaps even days analyzing each passage. I’d watched him decode counterfeit grimoires filled with defective sigils and corrupted incantations merely based on the type of ink used or pressure applied when writing down a spell. He’d determined a Mythic artifact belonging to witches was, in actuality, a repurposed relic from the corpse of a gorgon. A discovery Remington took credit for when returning it to the descendants of Medusa, something of no surprise considering that foul mortal built his career and life on stealing credit from the efforts of others.

Walter wouldn’t have the time or resources to fully analyze everything he wanted. Hesitantly, he flipped through the pages doing a quick glance through the entirety of the grimoire.

“What do you hope to find?”

“I’ve found some fairly clear trails connecting this to the infiltration and archivist regiments. Even the binding of the leather holds high-tier artificer craftsmanship. Nothing here indicates a direct connection to the vanguard regiment, aside from the fact it belonged to a vanguard practitioner. The strangest part is the subtle sentinel coding. It’s not standard, but I recognize it, which could imply Chancellor Driscoll used Corvine, his right hand, so to speak, as a way to subvert my mother’s regiment.” Walter bit his lower lip, unable to contain his continued mutterings. “That wouldn’t be good for her. Also, far too improbable to escape her knowledge. Though this is a pretty meticulously detailed plot to sabotage the Collective. It’s still unfathomable Chancellor Alden got taken by surprise. She knows everything about everyone, claiming the best thing to protect…”

I huffed, tuning out Walter’s rambles as he mused his mother’s position and how inconceivable it was she’d been outmaneuvered. It wasn’t surprising. This woman had a hold over him, one I’d witnessed in a few short minutes during the tribunal. Her mere presence had a way of breaking his spirit, his confidence. The idea of her fallibility likely rattled his entire outlook, having built her up to be this unstoppable force of power. One that kept him small and breakable his entire life. I frowned. Disgusted by this Chancellor Alden and the way her actions toward her son reminded me of sour memories best left in the Hell realm I abandoned lifetimes ago.

“Holy shit.” Walter’s jaw dropped, but whatever shock struck him didn’t leave him at a loss since he continued scribbling meticulously tiny notes. “This is impossible.”

“What?”

“There’s an access code to the Archivist Nexus Grimoire in this book. That means there’s not only privileged, illegally obtained sigils and spells belonging to various Mythic communities, but there’s a backdoor access code to the entire library of every Collective storage system from every archivist regiment across the world.” He traced his fingertips along the symbols representing the access code. “They’re inverted, too.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s likely a one-way doorway, which makes sense. Corvine wouldn’t want others knowing he is looking in on their files and documents and research.”

“He was,” I corrected with a sly smirk, more and more grateful I’d hurled that mage off the rooftop.

“You really hate mages, don’t you?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“Mages hated me first, so why not?”

“There’s more to it.” Walter scooted closer to me, fiddling with the grimoire but keeping his gaze locked on mine. “How’d you end up in that orb?”

“Killed a bunch of mages, stumbled into an unfortunate trap, and that pretty much sums it up.”

“Why’d you kill them? You killed hundreds.”

“It was them or me.”

“But you can’t die.”

I stiffened, reminded how little Walter or anyone knew about Diabolics, my life, my history, and the guise of Beelzebub.

“I know the story. They teach it at every academy.” Walter had a curious glimmer in his hazel eyes, the type which expressed that while he confidently understood something, he also believed pieces were missing. “Heck, I knew the story back in high school. You killed Magus Walsh, half his chancellors, and an entire convoy attempting to bridge an alliance with the Fae.” Walter’s expression softened. The faint light of the moon piercing through the thin drapes reflected off his lens. “The history of that tale paints you as a murderous sadist bent on chaos and carnage. I’ve seen that side of you, but it felt hollow and forced, unlike other aspects you keep hidden. I’d like to understand the real reason. If there is a real one.”

“The Magus wasn’t sending a convoy to build an alliance. Their intention was to invade and subjugate the Fae for control of the Dimensional Rifts the Fae hold access to.” I sighed, searching for as few words as possible to share a bit of truth because, for some abhorrent reason, I wanted to share the truth with Walter.My truth. “I enjoyed my time here. Mora knew so many fun Mythics, less judgmental at times, and then I met a young chancellor who believed the Mythics and mages could be more than tolerant of each other. He dreamed of uniting the Collective, the Mythic Council, and even introducing a Diabolic Embassy.”

“You mean, Magus Remington…”

“Yes. Abe. Younger, naïve, but crafty as always. Calculating, too. A silk tongue that weaved a web of lies so easily I fell right into his deceit. I believed I could be something more, which proved incorrect, as it has in the many centuries I’ve spent in this realm.”

---