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The air reeks of decay and musty, forgotten secrets. Rats skitter in a blind panic, their claws clicking on the filthy stone floor. Their beady eyes gleam under the swaying light of the lantern. Intent upon duplicating the array in the book he’s referencing, Jonathan Sims pays them little mind as they scurry around him and hiss. He pays even less attention to the demon.
Said demon crosses his arms loosely, the very picture of tested patience. A martyr’s pose. “That won’t work.”
Jon’s head remains bowed.
“Ignoring those addressing you is uncouth,” says the demon. He’s attired in an exquisitely tailored justaucorps. Lace peeks from his cuffs, the pale white contrasting with the deep ocean blue of the coat, seafoam on the roll of a wave at midnight. The ensemble is replete with a pressed cravat and shoes that click as they circle a respectful distance from the chalk marks being drawn on the floor. “Whyever won’t you use me?”
“You’re bloody well aware why,” Jon retorts through tight lips, refusing to be distracted. Unlike his companion, his clothing is simple and, although the materials are of good quality, it’s clearly not de rigeur. His outfit’s purpose is to be functional, and his neck is bare, no cravat in sight.
The demon eyes the well of clean flesh and hint of collarbone with undisguised interest.
“I wouldn’t have to take much,” he cajoles, taking a step closer.
“Stop.”
The strings that bind them together sing, yanking the demon into stillness before the tips of the shoes come into contact with chalk. “I am here to be your tool, am I not? Use me.”
“A tool,” the Archivist echoes. He runs both hands through his hair, which is dark and messy, unimproved by the exasperated gesture. “Yes, do remind me—which of us tricked the other into summoning a Prince of Hell as their assistant? Ah, yes, clearly it was me.”
“Holding petty grudges is unattractive,” the demon admonishes.
“Go away, Stolas.”
“I’ve told you; call me Elias.” A deliberate step is taken over the sigils. There’s no command halting his progress as he kneels beside Jon. In this form he has harmless, rounded nails, and these he runs across the vertebrae of Jon’s spine.
Jon would have flinched had a hand not clamped down on his neck. His pulse bounds under Elias’s thumb. “I hate it when you pretend you’re human.”
“As far as the world is concerned, I am. This vessel is mine, and you’re quite familiar with how adept I am at wielding its assets.”
“I, er...” Jon’s eyes won’t meet his. “That’s irrelevant.”
“Is it? Seems relevant, considering you'll fail without me. So what will it be?” The demon studies the Archivist's thoughts. They’re chaotic, shamed morality clashing with a mind that can be ruthlessly pragmatic when it decides to be. Which is good, for they both serve that devourer of knowledge that cares not for the means, only the ends, glutton that it is.
Jon is fascinating. Elias has made it his business to unearth the origin of each of these clashing desires, for what good is the ability to peer into minds if not to understand what drives them? Granted, it isn’t as if just anyone is worth the effort. Oh, they might have a wicked secret that lifts even his eyebrows, but the greater category of humanity as a whole is dull. Spineless, easy to tempt, easier to sway. Here is a challenge as Jon turns over the pros and cons of accepting.
“The sun is setting. Make your decision.” Elias waits. Patience is a virtue. Recognizing when to strike is a vice.
“I—” Jon chews on the inside of his cheek, weighing his options. On one side of the scales is the child who is afraid of the monster under her bed, as well as his yearning to draw one of the Dark’s creatures screaming into the light, to tear it to shreds with scalpel-sharp precision, grasping what couldn’t be understood by mortal eyes. On the other is what he’ll owe. “Fine, damn you.”
Elias presses a dry kiss against Jon’s forehead. His master’s eyes are the least mortal thing about him, and Jon will enjoy what comes next. As he’ll enjoy himself when Elias extracts payment. There is no losing in this scenario, really.
Jon snaps, “I can feel the slant of your thoughts and I disagree wholeheartedly, but this is neither the time nor the place.”
“If you say so,” Elias murmurs.
It happens exactly as he predicted. Jon completes the design and reluctantly draws on Elias’s power. A fraction of it, a thread unspooling from a tapestry that stretches back to a forgotten era when his name wasn’t Stolas. When he wasn’t a demon. Before London fell.
Perhaps Elias will gift his master that statement some day. If being the Archivist doesn’t kill him first.
Jon snaps his fingers, activating the array. It glows faintly, a steadily pulsing blue that casts strange shapes into the darkness. From above—Elias tilts his head—there’s a shrill scream. Then the ceiling bulges, stone and mortar groaning. A crack rends the silence. The building convulses violently.
Elias nonchalantly yanks Jon’s collar, sparing him from being drenched as brackish water pours from the fissure in the ceiling. It splatters as it hits the floor and, despite his best efforts, even Elias winds up with befouled trousers. It’s his turn to be displeased, though there’s little to be done about it—the thing lurking in that pool of darkness lurches to its full height, towering over them.
It has no recognizable form. Nothing human or beast about it, yet carrying a hint of them all. In the expansive void of it, Elias can glimpse memories of a blood-splattered abattoir, the vestibule of a midnight mass attended by a hooded crowd. They sing praises to the night and the wretch trembles, overwrought. It loathes being seen and known. It would pluck their eyes from their skulls if it could, and oh does it try to, slamming into the invisible boundary of the summoning circle.
A hairline fracture forms in the light.
“Don’t let it do that again,” Elias advises, unperturbed.
Jon starts guiltily, shaken out of his fascination. This new Archivist is tender in delightful ways, and while Elias finds his curiosity endearing, he’s loath to sacrifice his clothing to this nothing-being. It’s hardly more threatening to Elias than the audience of rats, their small bodies quivering with terror. But he doesn’t want their guts splattered on him either, does he?
“Will it work?” Jon asks, tightness in his voice. But he’s already reaching for the spare lantern lying at his feet, lighting the wick.
“Oh, it'll work. In fact”—Elias smiles at their prisoner—”it'll be quite a show."
Jon disappears into his bedroom, muttering curses under his breath. A minute later the plumbing in the old house jolts to life in a series of creaks. Elias can almost taste the rust on the copper.
It’s not a gracious abode. They have the lucre to live elsewhere—at least the former Mr. Bouchard did, and the bank doesn’t differentiate between who inhabits the body—but Jon refuses to vacate the premises. Partly out of regrettable sentimentalism for the wreck. Largely out of mistrust of anything Elias offers carrying a price. Which he’s not wrong about. But in this case Elias would be satisfied simply by not having to listen to the pipes falling apart.
It’s the small things he asks for. Really, Elias thinks he’s being quite reasonable.
He browses through the assortment of mail piling up in their entryway. Correspondence with scholars, some with Hunters. Bills. Pleas for succor from the desperate. The letters are divided into appropriate categories for Jon to sort through, except for the last. That stack Elias carries with him into the parlor.
By the time Jon reappears, hair damp, the parlor is cozy, flames crackling in the hearth. The letters from those seeking to be saved by the Archivist are naught but ashes, and Elias has no burdened conscience for it. They only upset Jon. In most cases the solution is either beyond Jon’s control or the senders are already dead, rendering the entire exercise moot.
Besides, that isn’t the Archivist’s job. A fact that Jon obstinately keeps turning a deaf ear to.
“That was—” Jon stops. Soap and hot water have done him a world of good, bringing a lively bloom to his face. A far cry from the gray pallor that had lingered after the shadows stopped screaming.
“Illuminating?” suggests Elias, petting the scraggly stray cat that had the run of the house. If Elias could figure out how the clever thing was coming and going, he might do something about it, but he appreciates ingenuity in all its forms.
Jon huffs. “If that was a pun, it was in poor taste.”
“Puns generally are, I find.” The cat is collected from his lap and set aside. It stretches and then slinks underneath the sofa as Elias rises to his feet, giving the Archivist a critical look-over. Droplets of water cling to his messy hair, though he’s otherwise done an admirable job at drying it off. Elias twines his fingers through the disheveled locks out of pleasure, with the added benefit of styling it.
Jon’s breath rattles in his chest but he stands his ground, watching Elias warily. Expectantly.
“It ended well, didn’t it? The monster defeated, the child saved… the parents swearing that they’ll never meddle with magic again. Granted, they seemed less grateful than annoyed. Had they known it would cost them their flooring, would they have chosen their offspring over the property damage?” he speculates, luxuriating in the feel of toying with Jon’s hair. It’s thicker and softer than the cat’s mangy fur and smells divine. Of jasmine and patchouli, which pleases him. At least Jon is using some of the things Elias has purchased for him.
“Not everyone is evil,” Jon says. His tone is guarded but his body language betrays how much he’s relishing the attention. He’s bared his neck and Elias isn’t one to decline a feast. He traces an invisible line to the soft skin behind the earlobe.
“Evil, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. You should be familiar with that by now.” There’s no need to state the obvious, that the naïf bourgeoisie count Jon among the vilest, save for when it’s convenient to call upon him. How reassuring that a rich vein of hypocrisy runs in humankind still. The Sundering had brought them down a peg, yet nothing short of annihilation will ever quell that particular folly. It’s too rewarding.
Jon makes an ambivalent noise, then sniffs dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. I… I don’t care.”
Elias’s quiet laugh ghosts the side of his throat, dragging a swath of gooseflesh with just his breath. “Yes, alright. Let’s turn to business, then.”
He fingers the collar of Jon’s shirt. Not what he’d been wearing in the basement. The fabric is softer than the usual sort. Would be a pity to ruin it.
Fight or flight kicks in, and Jon goes rigid before he forces himself to relax. He stays silent as Elias unbuttons the shirt, spreading the material back so that it hangs on the curve of his shoulders. There are no accidental touches, Elias is efficient, aware that Jon half-expects him to take liberties. He won’t. A deal is a deal.
Later it’ll be different.
“Must you?” Jon asks, indicating the shirt.
“I’m afraid I do while you insist on wearing such dowdy garments. Now. May I?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Jon lets out a long sigh.
“No.” He really doesn’t. And, not to put too fine a point on it, neither does Elias. A demon’s nature is inflexible when it comes to payment.
Wordlessly Jon tips his head to the side. The curve of his throat is enticing, the jut of his collarbones a favorite guideline for Elias to explore with his tongue. Scars mark his body because Jon has made mistakes, and these Elias is intimately familiar with. He knows what each puckered marking and divot represent. What Entity was behind it. How close they came to killing Jon. That many of them ache when it’s cold, when it’s dark, when Jon is lonely.
Radiant heat scatters through Elias. Oh, how lovely Jon is when he’s lonely. Another favorite. But none compare to the particularly shiny strip of pink skin over Jon’s pulse.
The vessel he’s occupying is human. Mostly. The teeth? The teeth are all him.
There’s a hitching breath, and Jon winds his arms around him to grip and pull at the back of Elias’s shirt as Elias’s teeth part fresh scar tissue smoothly. They slice into the jugular and there’s more shuddering. It’s painful. It burns. The softness of Elias’s mouth around torn flesh, the suction as he drinks—it stings. There’s no hiding it. Not from the demon who lives in his head.
Same as there’s no denying that Jon’s knees are weak from desire. The surging of his pulse urges Elias to gorge, long mouthfuls that make him lightheaded, the corporeal and metaphysical appeased. Jon tastes of addiction, of ink, of copper and iron, and Elias is tempted to back him up into a wall, to do more than wrap an arm around the low of his back to support him. To grind their groins together and wring those inarticulate cries from Jon, the prim and proper outer shell shattered.
Jon drags his nails down Elias’s back, scratches blunted by the fabric, but Elias savors the ache. Takes it as tacit approval.
Later. The promise rings between them, relief and dread emanating from Jon. One hand stops scoring Elias’s back to stroke his nape, and Elias swallows the last mouthful with regret. He seals the wound—a gasp from Jon as the ragged edges reknit.
They don’t separate immediately. Not the way it’d been in the first year, when Jon would snap to his senses and flee out of the room. While they’re not quite where Elias would prefer them to be, this is… well, rather pleasant. He’s blood-drunk and leaning on Jon, and Jon is twined around him like ivy, weak from blood loss and the echo of Elias’s undeniable satisfaction.
Elias is glad he chose to trick this Archivist into summoning him.
“I heard that. Stop being a smug bastard about it.” Jon is attempting to frown but he’s too lax to muster enough irritation.
“Mn, can’t. Part of my charm. You’ll have to learn to appreciate it,” Elias says lightly.
After all, the Archivist only ever gets one demon.