I settled the palm of my hand against one of the plates on the righthand door, pressing my forehead lightly against the back of it to speak the word that would grant me access. Again, I’m not crazy: I’m not saying what that is. Those books were mine. All mine. The entire room was magically warded and coded to me, and me alone.
We had one nosy servant who insisted on getting into the Repository to poke around for himself. Fortunately, his employment didn’t last very long. Neither did his life. The maids did a good job of vacuuming what was left of him off the carpet, though.
An internal mechanism of enchanted clockwork slid and clicked in response to my presence, gradually unsealing the Repository. I threw open the double doors to my study, the brass on the handles cool to the touch. I breathed in the heady scent of ancient wisdom and arcane power. Dozens upon dozens of rare, powerful tomes lined the walls, but one among them was special, and a little unwelcome.
It hovered in the center of the circular room, its pages rustling irritably as it turned in place slowly to face me.
“Young Master Quilliam,” the book said. “It’s about bloody time.”
4
“Dantaleon,” I snarled. I hated when he called me Master. He only ever did that when he was pissed at me, the way a parent uses your full name to let you know that you’re in trouble. “How in all the hells did you even get in here?”
“Oh, is that the greeting your beloved tutor and mentor gets after so painstakingly waiting for your lazy, misbegotten hide to clamber back from yet another misguided escapade? Your protections are child’s play to me, boy.”
He said all of this with a sneer, which was quite the challenge for someone who could speak with no mouth. Magic was strange like that. There are different ways to pull off a spell, and sometimes someone with a weaker grasp of the art will need a variety of accoutrements to actually make magic. Athames, altars, and sigils can all amplify the power of a spell, but ultimately, what the modern, mobile mage wants is an ability to reduce magic to its basest parts.
With experience, a more learned mage can do away with scrolls and staves, and eventually, even hand gestures or words of power. The deadliest wizard of all is one who can raise a tornado, call down thunder, or split the earth open with no wands or words at all – to warp and command reality with nothing but pure force of will. They could be sitting in the corner of a coffee shop, sipping on black Arabica, while they drown a man in his own blood half a world away.
My particular talent for magic still required words and gestures to work properly. Dantaleon was far more advanced, and could trigger powerful effects with simple words. The book that served as his body was only a vessel, of course. Despite the relative immortality of demons, Dantaleon’s corporeal form had grown so ancient and decrepit that the best option was to house his essence in a book of spells. His personal book of shadows, that is, one that I would have killed to acquire, except preferably in a form that didn’t come with a cantankerous old fart preinstalled in its pages.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “I plug up the place to make sure the doors only respond to me – down to needing my handprint and skin contact to even unlock to begin with – and here you come traipsing in with no hands or even skin to speak of.”
Or a face, for that matter, but I could hear the triumphant smile in Dantaleon’s voice when he gloated. “Must I repeat myself? You are an infant compared to the immense store of knowledge contained within my soul. I am full of arcane wisdom and experience. You know better than anyone that you could do well to learn from me.”
Now, I think pretty damn highly of myself, but Dantaleon had me soundly beaten in that particular area. I grumbled under my breath, partly hiding my mouth behind the cover of the Testament of Spheres. “You’re full of something all right.”
“What was that?”
“I said you’re amazing, and brilliant, and smart.”
The old book that was Dantaleon’s mortal husk rotated in place, again, its pages facing me in a way that told me he was staring me down disapprovingly. The only indication that showed his expressions in any way was a series of gemstones embedded in his spine, which tended to pulse and glow in time with his speech. The louder his voice, the angrier he was, the brighter they shone.
Don’t even start with where the voice actually comes from. There was no mechanism or mouthpiece on the book itself, yet the sound of Dantaleon’s voice came directly from within. It was certainly expressive enough to evoke the entire range of his sometimes volatile emotions.
“And exactly where have you been?” he barked, the disdain smearing his voice. “I’ve been looking for you all morning, because you were late again for your lessons, and come to find out that you’ve been gallivanting out in the human world again. To what end?”
I rolled my eyes. “Would you calm down, please? You’re going to get more wrinkles, which is saying something.”
It really was. Dantaleon took the shape of a book for very specific reasons, but when he got angry like this, his papery form tended to get especially creasy. Ruffled. Hah!
“Your education is of the utmost importance, Quilliam,” he said primly.
“Dantaleon. I’m twenty-four now. What is this, a master’s degree? Most people move on by then. I don’t need more education.”
“Preposterous. Your learning need never end. I will keep teaching and instructing you until the day I die. Which is never, of course.”
I hugged the Testament of Spheres to my chest, grinning happily. “My mistake, actually. This. This is my education.”
Dantaleon zipped through the air, his pages rustling ominously
