Hannah Aston & Samantha Flagella

Chapter 1

Laisren

The morning that the Devil contacted them had been a particularly unfulfilling one for the High Warlock of New York City; the sort of disappointment that was a discomfort under the skin for its unexpected sourness.

Usually, their home smelled of white sage, and the herby ochre timbre of the incense always reminded them of a job well done.

Their house kept hold of the gently burned scent, such that they could walk into the library two days after a cleansing and unlock a bubble of aroma, and be re-affirmed that yes, that case was ticked off, the door was closed on that particular puzzle, and they could pour an extra measure of tonic for themself that evening if they were feeling a little luxurious. Today, however, the glint of black tourmaline made them think of unfinished business.

They’d placed chunks of it about their brownstone to dispel negative energies, once the portal was cleared of its unwilling inhabitant, and the glint of the gems brought the demon’s hissing words to mind. Distaste soured their mouth as it always did when an obstacle arose from the usual straightforward path to cracking a case or resolving a problem.

“There was certainly no need for Abernacle to have been so rude, either,” they muttered to nobody. Accustomed to the silence of their bookshelves and the gentle bubbling of their lab equipment by way of answer. They checked the concoction brewing merrily, knocking a finger quickly against the bulbous sphere bottle held aloft with brass pincers.

“Did he really think insults would get him out of the pentagram quicker?”

The tubes were still, quiet. They quirked an eyebrow, mouth puckering.

“Mn, no, as I thought. Civility reigns. We’ll just have to try another route on this one.”

A few missing demons was not necessarily untoward, considering their nature. But a noticeable number from the lesser orders had been disappearing seemingly into thin air over the last six months, and when the demons themselves couldn’t quite decide on who might be responsible—and it wasn’t any of the usual suspects—that’s when they called in support from the city’s High Warlock.

And so it was that they found an influx of missed calls and fire scrolls appearing in their office during the height of summer, and why they’d been more temperate than usual towards Abernacle. No one liked reams of friends being snatched by an unknown force.

They sighed, about to start another batch of sleeping tonic for a regular customer— somewhat soothed by the comfortable scents of warming ingredients and the sharp tang of magical flames—when a tinny jingle broke the peace they’d crafted. Hm.

They frowned a little preemptively, teetering on the cusp of indulging in a little selfishness and ignoring the chime. A text message, so perhaps it wasn’t that important. Returning to the tonic, they stirred the fragrant mixture a few times, watching the lavender sprigs and inhaling their gentle perfume. They worked long hours, sure, preferring to make progress than idle the time away lounging—nothing against lounging, it truly was a hedonistic bliss that many humans hadn’t quite perfected; but the point seemed a little less there when there was no one to lounge with. But the hour was early, unusually so for a direct message to have been sent on their work phone, what with their rigorous calendar keeping skills and strict rule regarding outside of hours contact (in that their rule was no-outside-of-hours-unless-it-really-really-was-an-emergency), considering the last spate of calls from a hypochondriac ghost. Humming to themself, they clicked the flame off with a snap of their fingers and the stove they’d had custom-installed sputtered.

“You can sit there and simmer,” they said, tentatively hoping someone had made a mistake and they’d be adding the juniper berries and powdered moonstone in no time. Tea, first. Tea goes well with text messages out of the blue during what was supposed to be a day ‘off’.

Through the windows at the front of the brownstone, grey morning light bathed the narrow stairwell up from their basement lab to the guest entrance and Ren thumbed open their phone as they climbed, shouldering open the door between the narrow client entrance into the warm cocoon of their private home. All their tentative hope drained away quicker than their electric kettle had a chance to scream gently at them, steam building in its lemon-yellow body—a pleasing round shape.

High Warlock Laisren Mori. You are required to assist on an urgent matter and I am not in the habit of making requests twice. Their stomach shrank to the size of a walnut, but they persevered. I demand your utmost discretion and haste and will pay you for your efforts in the manner that befits a warlock of your station and reputation. As I have proven capable of already.

Ren set their lips into a mildly displeased line at the snippy tone, which only furthered to unseat a sense of dread and fluff it to life like an old pillow. That tone only belonged to one person. Another text chimed through as they were reading, and they thumbed it open, ring clacking on the screen and— Forgo my last. I will be arriving at your house imminently. Bar the door and I will slash your commission.

Ren’s surprise and dread were framed by the small ‘o’ of their lips at the sign off of the second message—the number unknown, though that tone? That was unmistakable. Lucifer Morningstar. In case you made the mistake of not saving the number of this city’s overseer.

Well. That was peculiar.

Forget pillows; Ren’s dread was a fully fledged dragon.

I am not in the habit of making requests twice, they read again, a curl of indignation lapping in their stomach; empty of tea, that reminded them. Well, Ren wasn’t in the habit of being commanded like a lap dog, either. Imagine, to speak to the High Warlock of their shared city in this manner! He was the Devil, sure, but… still. A little decorum to someone who’d spent a good handful of centuries curating a flawless and not inconsiderable reputation of their own. Ren was not a proud creature, not in the habit of drinking deeply of
self-satisfaction, but they were pleased with their work and what they’d managed to achieve and the general consensus was that everyone else who’d had High Warlock Laisren Mori handle their affairs agreed. In both the mortal and immortal realms. It irked that esteemed Mr. Morningstar had forgone this and went straight for condescension. Well.

It wouldn’t do to turn the Devil away from their door, either. Ren couldn’t quite picture slamming the door in his face.

Fine. Fine. Denying would likely warrant some sort of consequence, given this was a personal ‘request’ from the Prince of Hell himself, and no manner of pride would allow Ren to concede that whatever this matter was, it was evidently important enough to rouse the Devil to reach out beyond his considerable and complex network of demons and agents of chaos. And that tapped to life the same old spark of curiosity that had gotten Ren into a few more scrapes and tricksy situations than they could shake a stick at. Including a few with said Devil. They remembered the rooftop, a clean eighteen months ago now, with a modicum of
foreboding.

Hm. They clicked the kettle on again, this time with enough water for two.