Page 6 of Geoffrey the Very Strange
"You know those round metal things people use? The ones that make lacing holes, you know, keep from fraying?"
Geoffrey stared at the imp, drumming his fingers as he tried to parse this. "You meangrommets?"
"Yes. I'd like those." It shouldn't have been possible to tell with a being made of shadow, but Geoffrey swore Cecil was acutely embarrassed.
"Grommets you shall have." Geoffrey stopped, pen poised over the document. "Two a week?"
At Cecil's nod, he added the clause and waited until his new guardian had read through the contract thoroughly, walking up and down the page. Satisfied, Cecil dipped the end of his pointed tail into the ink and signed. Geoffrey signed beneath him.
"There." Quill returned to its stand, Geoffrey regarded the imp with a raised eyebrow. "Now you can stop pestering me."
"I guess? But what's on the agenda today, boss?"
"Me being left alone so I can finish my notes and conduct some research." Geoffrey took pity on Cecil when his shoulders slumped. "But if you don't mind doing it, that poor mouse on the altar needs a proper burial. Somewhere under the blackberry bushes by the entrance. And please let me have some warning if my grandmother's coming up the path."
Cecil grinned, his teeth sharp and strange in their brightness against the rest of his shadow self. "Will do, boss. Anything else I should know?"
"I'm waiting on a delivery. Probably later this week. From Talondon's. He usually sends the minotaur… I can't recall his name. Cantrip? Crocus? Something with aC. Anyway. A delivery of seashells. Please don't frighten him away."
"Got it. No frightening the delivery being."
"Now go do guardian things and let me work." Geoffrey flapped his hands. "Shoo."
Cecil took the mouse with him, and the first real peace in weeks settled over Geoffrey's laboratory, which was both a relief and a little strange. He'd only agreed to take Cecil on to stop the pestering, of course. It wasn't because he was lonely. What an absurd thought. A necromancer was solitary, self-sufficient, self-contained. He didn't need anyone.
Though it was helpful sometimes to have another person asking questions during experiments. Helped clarify things in his own mind and suggested avenues of inquiry he might not have considered. Not quite a research assistant, but close. Again, not something heneeded.
He finished his notes on the last unsuccessful experiment and took Anzinger'sMagicalCorollariesdown from the shelf to reread the chapter on rare forms of sympathetic magic. He practically knew it by heart, but he was about to twitch out of his skin if he didn't give himself something to do while he waited for his shell order.
Of course the minotaur would handle the delivery. It would be heavy. Heliotrope was too small. Ayla, the sylph, wouldn't be able to trudge up the hill with the cart. Talondon never made deliveries himself, and he couldn't imagine the lycan entrusting it to that new twit of a shop clerk.
Nutshells. Beetle shells.
Geoffrey snorted at the recollection. What an idiot. Naturally, he was aprettyidiot, which led people to forgive all sorts of stupidity. The big yellow eyes, the bright, gormless smile, the wild, high curls of pink hair—candy-confectionpink, of all unholy colors. Most of the demon spawn Geoffrey had met had been sharp, wild beings who dripped sex and danger and the promise of secrets for the right price. This one, obviously new in town, was just the most ridiculous creature he'd ever seen.
Sometimes mixing human and demon blood yielded odd results.
At least he hadn't been rude, hadn't pointed out the words that didn't quite take the right path from Geoffrey's brain to his mouth. Despite his ridiculousness, hehadtried his best to be helpful. And he was incredibly nice to look at. And those long, clawed hands were elegant and graceful—
"Gah." Geoffrey shook himself to interrupt the thoughts that were quickly racing off in their own directions. Why was he even wasting time musing on a brainless shop clerk at all? No time for such things, or at least, such thoughts were awasteof time.
He returned to the Anzinger's, realizing he had to go back a page since he hadn't absorbed a single sentence. Back to the part about cinnamon drops that Sinecure the Younger had used to conjure fire hot enough to burn even the metal bits of the catapults and battering rams during the siege of Toumaken. Fascinating stuff.
3
Necromancers Don't Have Friends
"She's a predator, Mr. Talondon." Aspic did his best not to shrink under his employer's glower. "Like y— Um, like other raptors. She won't eat seeds and flowers."
Dire Talondon folded his huge arms over his chest, which did nothing to make his arms look smaller. "Does she eat mice?"
"No, sir. She's a little on the small side for that." On his arm, Sundrop tilted her head one way and the other to return Mr. Talondon's glare. "But, um, crickets. And… weevils. She loves bugs."
"Hmm." The growl rumbled long and low in Mr. Talondon's deep chest. Sundroptsheeredback at him in challenge. "Fine. She can come to work with you. But you clean up after her, and the first time she goes after a customer, she's out."
"Yes, sir."
Clover clopped up and put a protective hand on Aspic's shoulder. "It'll be fine, Dire. Don't bully the boy."
