Kindling the Moon
Page 16

Yeah, that was about right. “I’m a magician, and damn good at controlling demons—Earthbounds or Æthyric. Historically, our kinds have never been best buddies,” I said, pointing back and forth between the two of us. “Once demons realize that I’m not a power-crazed mage forcing them to give up some divinatory vision or alchemical secret, they’re usually cool with me. As long as they don’t break shit in my bar, I’m cool with them.”
He looked at me thoughtfully, then pulled out the same silver cigarette case he’d had earlier in the day. “Can we smoke inside?”
“Sure.” Maybe it would get rid of the burnt-pig stench in my hair. I reached to open a nearby window, accepted his offer, and lit up with my own lighter before sliding it toward him.
“Your valrivia tastes fresh,” I said after taking a couple of drags in silence.
“It is. I grow it.”
Another long moment stretched as we both smoked and he looked around the room in curiosity.
“You’ve got magical wards over the doors and windows,” he noted.
“Yep.”
“What are you afraid of? Surely not demons.”
“Hardly.”
“Do you belong to an order? A magical organization?”
“No,” I lied.
“But you were trained somewhere.”
“I learned on my own.”
He laughed. “Bullshit. No one learns summoning and binding demons on their own. That’s an advanced skill and the goetias in publication are bogus.”
“Most of them are. If you’ve got natural talent, you can teach yourself anything.”
“Let’s say that’s true. How many Æthyric demons have you summoned?”
I shrugged, enjoying the euphoric effect of the cigarette. “More than ten, less than a hundred.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “For what purpose?”
“Mostly for practice in the beginning. Curiosity. Now I only do it if I need to trade information.” Or skills. Just like Earthbounds, most of the Æthyric demons have abilities. Only, theirs are much greater. Need to heal someone with stomach cancer? Find your grandmother’s hidden stash of war bonds? If you know the right Æthyric with the right skill— and are willing to negotiate a trade—you might be able to get what you’ve wished for. Might. It is a tricky game. “I’ve had a few run-ins with some Æthyrics who weren’t exactly thrilled to be summoned,” I added. “Not all of them play nice.”
“They’re no different than humans in that respect,” he agreed.
True.
“So, enough about me,” I said. “Were you upset when you got kicked out of the seminary? How long ago was that, by the way?”
His face twisted up in mock surprise. “Are you trying to find out my age?”
“What? No.” I glanced out the window. “But now that you mention it, how old are you?”
“Forty-two. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five? Jesus, I was older than that when my son was born.”
“You have a son? I guess that chastity vow didn’t take, huh?”
He laughed, and for the first time, it was pleasant. All the meanness was gone. “I didn’t take a chastity vow. I never really intended to become a priest,” he explained. “And yes, I have a son. He’s thirteen. Closer to your age than I am.”
Thirteen? Christ.
“Is your wife an Earthbound?”
“I’m divorced, and yes.”
“Oh … I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He looked at me intently, and I found my hand nervously moving up to cover the side of my neck, as if it were exposed. It took some effort to force my arm back down to my side.
“Do you see your son often?” I asked.
“He lives with me. I have full custody.”
“Oh, good.” Good? That was a silly response. My cheeks flushed as he absently scratched the hair behind one ear. He had really striking green eyes when they weren’t narrowed into defensive slits.
“So why did you join the seminary if you didn’t want to become a priest?”
“I wanted to get my hands on a few of their books.”
“Aha! So you did steal those goetias that Father Carrow talked about! I can’t say that I’m very religious myself, but even I think that’s pretty low.”
“Why don’t most magicians believe in God?” he mused. “They witness more miracles than the average person.”
I bristled. Most of the people in my order believe in some sort of creator. Maybe not a Abrahamic one, but they share many of the same ideals and moral codes: protect your family, accept responsibility for your actions—that sort of thing.
“I believe in a God,” I argued. “Just not ghosts.”
He chuckled, and after casually crossing his legs, ankle on knee, he slumped lower down into the cushions. “Just because I didn’t intend to become a priest doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God. Maybe not with the conviction that Father Carrow has …” A gentle smile curled the corners of his mouth. “But you’re right. Stealing from the church was stupid. I was only nineteen, if that counts for anything. Though, in the end, it was worth it. The books I took were … invaluable.”
He took a long drag off his cigarette and observed me. I was starting to feel lightheaded. Almost buzzed. I turned the cherry end of my cigarette toward my face and sniffed it suspiciously. “There’s only valrivia in these, right?”