Page 60 of Hopelessly Teavoted
“Victoria. How is Azrael?”
“Mr. Hart.” She paused; it was strange to see him without his wife. “Grieving, but other than that, doing well. Azrael just started teaching. I think he’s going to be extraordinary. That he already is, really.”
Benedict nodded, his white hair shaking back and forth, and let out a little grunt of satisfaction.
“Good. That suits him. But we have other things to speak of. Your gift.”
Vickie was glad he’d called it a gift. She hated when her parents, the very people who had stuck her with it, used the wordcurse.
“You’re not the only one with bargained-for power. Yours allows you to see souls and burn the thing that bound them to this world as sacrifice. There are others with gifts like this, gifts that allow kindnesses. You can summon the dead. Some can persuade them. Others walk in dreams, or enchant with beauty in any craft. These are the gifts of the lesser devils. Of your devil. And he might be tricky and haunt you with his caveats. Still, he does follow a code.”
“But?”
“Someone has made a worse bargain with a much more terrible prince of Hell. A greater devil. Their bargains are rarer even than yours. And more deadly. The ability to reap bodies and souls. Sometimes the ability to see the future or the past. Gifts humans shouldn’t have. It complicates things too much. It may not have been a bargain that greater devil made willingly, which means it may not be limited in scope and power the way it should be.” Benedict’s transparent brow wrinkled. He cracked his knuckles and tapped them on the table.
“Who?”
“I’m not sure. It’s unclear, and things are… a bit murkier on this side of life. Time, existence, identity… they all stretchand contract, blur, and blend together. I know that I love Persephone, and that she is my world. I know that I care about my children. Dying is letting go, and there’s deep sadness there, but also a fading connection to the living world. I’m losing small parts of the life I used to have—names, faces, memories, they’re all slipping away, to ultimately make it easier when I slip away too.”
“It’s a gradual process, then?” Vickie had long suspected this, for the ghosts could always be summoned until their most beloved objects from their earthly lives were gone from the world. Then they burned, whether to the more lush and lovely parts of a great beyond or to a cool and torturous damnation. When they were ash, she always sensed they were gone, from this plane, at least.
Benedict flickered, and the wooden angel, carved in enough detail to show a craftsman’s face, trembled in her hands, growing hot. She was sad that Azrael wouldn’t get to see it. He would have loved the memento of his father.
“Have care, Vickie. Be ready when you go to the church. For now, what Azrael needs is in the family grimoire. Find out who has dealt with the devil with baser intentions than yours. And be honest with Azrael. Even when it is difficult. He puts on a good front, my son, but he needs—”
The figurine flamed out, cutting Benedict off.
Vickie wasn’t sure how long she’d stood staring at the empty desk and chair when a knock at the shed door startled her out of her reverie. The door was refusing to open unless she allowed it. Hart Manor could be downright loyal when it wanted to. The walls tucked in protectively around her, bending ever so slightly to the middle.
“Dammit, let me in, you pile of brittle bricks.” Fists slammed against the door again. “Victoria! Vickie?!” Azrael’s voice was muffled with concern and the weight of the wood between them.
Vickie pulled open the door, and his face relaxed into relief.
“I thought I heard you talking,” Az said.
“I accidentally summoned your dad.”
“That tracks.” His hand came up, reaching for her, but he shoved it into his pocket. “Guess I’ll have to learn to curb that habit,” he said, smiling wryly.
“I mean, only if you want to live.” She smiled up at him and reached for the plastic bags that would do in the place of glass. “Come on.” She gestured to the door, and to Evelyn and Priscilla waiting for them.
“I’ve submitted a formal report of the stolen plants,” Evelyn announced. “But all of the things together, well, it will take some time to process, since there’s no immediate threat. I can only keep the Council from this for a little while longer. You have until the end of October, but once the veil thins, it’s too dangerous.”
Prissy glared at her. “Fine. We need to find out who else cut a deal in Hallowcross. Is there anything unusual?” Priscilla tapped a finger on her chin. “Any instances of magic gone awry, or working weirdly? It could be something small.”
A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that she almost knew what Azrael was going to say before he said it.
“My asshole boss.”
“Being an asshole is not a crime,” said Priscilla with a sigh. “Though if it were, things sure would go a lot more smoothly.”
“He’s not just an asshole. He seems immune to the little world-healing spells.” Azrael ran his hand through his hair, shook it out, and cracked his knuckles. So many nervous tics in a row for her handsome, angsty witch.
Prissy’s face softened. “Mom’s spells?”
“Mom’s spells. I thought maybe he would be less angry, and nicer to my colleagues. To the kids. But the only thing that worked was a very childish bit to stick a Post-it note to his back.”
“Magic didn’t work on him at all, save for attaching a note to his jacket?” Evelyn’s voice was sharp. “But still, nothing’stripped my alarm at the school,” she mused. “I suppose it could be possible that he has some sort of protective spell work, but if that’s the case, then if it is him, he’s already powerful enough that we ought to tread lightly. You’re certain the magic didn’t work on him directly?”
