Page 7 of Becoming Effrijim
“Thanks,” I managed to say, slumping to the ground next to the phone. I needed help. I needed someone who could do what I couldn’t. A necromancer to raise Cam’s spirit? A vespillo to find her essence? I had to do something, but I was just a demon sixth class.
The mental image came forward, that of Camio laughing a few centuries ago when we got a day off at the same time, and we went to the park to have a picnic. It was one of the happiest days of my life.
Someone had to help me. Someone ...
“Thanks,” I repeated, getting to my feet. “I don’t know what to do, but I know someone who does.”
“Huh? Never mind, I don’t want to be involved in any of your escapades. Later.” Vodstoc hung up, and I sat looking at nothing while I thought, pushing away all the painful emotions.
I’d face that later. Not now.
It just hurt too much now.
THE LIFE AND FABULOUS TIMES OF ME: SALLY, SOVEREIGN, BOSS BABE, AND BEARER OF THE CHALICE OF PARISI
20 June
“Terrin, darling,” I said to the man himself as he sat glued to his chair, a mountain of papers in six stacks of varying heights and levels of tidiness splayed out in front of him.
“Hmm?” he asked, not bothering to look up from his laptop. “Is there something you need, Sally?”
The nearest stack of papers quivered, just as if a sneeze would send them into an explosion of papery chaos.
I eyed the stack.
“No,” he said, an obvious warning in his voice.
I tsked and propped myself up on the unoccupied corner of his desk. “You know I love you to the ends of the earth and back, but, sugar, you can be such a wet blanket. Also, you understand me far too well for my comfort. But that matters not. Do you know a demon named”—I consulted my phone—“Effrijim? Apparently, it used to be with Amaymon, but was forcibly removed from Abaddon for some hullabaloo over a leviathan with romance on his mind.”
“Effrijim?” He looked up at the name, his mild brown eyes, brown hair, and general appearance of mildness making him look innocuous, naive, and possessed of a bovine level of intelligence, none of which was true. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact, and once again I prided myself on picking the perfect partner with whom to run the Court.
“That’s the name,” I said, glancing at the text message again.
“There was a sprite named Effrijim who I seem to recall causing issues with our predecessor,” he said after a moment’s obvious dig through his (prodigious) memory. “I didn’t meet him myself, but the name is somewhat familiar. I believe there are some records concerning him that I can look up, if you like.”
“That little ... he was a sprite?” I considered pursing my lips, but as a dedicated alumnus of the Carrie Fay Academy of Really Nice Hair and Perky Bosoms, I confined myself to a raised eyebrow, instead. “He didn’t say anything about that. He’s a demon now.”
“It’s a demon,” Terrin corrected, his attention back to the paperwork he loved so dearly. It was one of the reasons why we as Sovereign had ruled so successfully for the last seven hundred years. “Demons use the ‘it’ pronoun.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to fly these days,” I answered, still thinking about the demon. While I was naturally shocked and horrified that anyone would leave the Court, the idea of rubbing shoulders with all those demons and demon lords had a strange appeal to it.
Terrin paused for a moment. “I didn’t think of that, but you’re right. What with all the social justice and such, I’m a bit surprised the demons haven’t demanded new pronouns. Or are they happy with gender-neutral, do you think?”
“Sugar, much though I love keeping my fingers on the pulse of the Court, that power sadly does not extend to Abaddon.” Of their own accord, my lips pursed for a scant moment. “But that doesn’t have to remain the case.”
“What does Effrijim want?” Terrin asked, tapping away on the keyboard.
“If there was a way I could slip in ... a very strong glamour would be needed to hide my Court ties, of course ... but that wouldn’t be difficult to arrange. No, the problem is the surplus of demon lords. ... Hmm? The demon Effrijim wants revenge.”
“Demons,” Terrin muttered in a dismissive tone.
“No, no, you have it wrong. He doesn’t want revenge against a mortal, or even an immortal; he wants revenge against Ariton.”
That had Terrin looking up, a question in his eyes.
“I don’t know, exactly,” I answered the question, holding up my phone. “He just asked if I could help him exact revenge against Ariton.”
“Please tell me you’re not considering it,” Terrin said, a somewhat fatalistic expression settling on his face.
